


Make Yours a Happy Home

by popfly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gym Teacher!Hoechlin, Kid Fic, M/M, Parent/Teacher, Single Dad!Dylan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Tyler turns his head slowly to see Charlotte’s dad watching them, lips rolled into his mouth and dimples in his cheeks.</i> </p><p>  <i>“Daddy!” Charlotte throws herself off the bleachers and her dad grabs her just in time, making an “oomph” noise and propping her on his hip. “Mr. Hoechlin was showing me the dances I get to do in gym.”</i> </p><p>  <i>“Oh was he.” Charlotte’s dad still looks like this is the best thing he’s seen all day, eyes sparkling in the sun. He’s wearing plaid shorts that are way too big and a white tee shirt that is almost too small, and it’s clinging to him. Tyler figures he’s probably sweaty from the heat of the day and the exertion of the game and he can see the cut of his abs through the damp fabric and he really needs to stop staring at the father of one of his students and also he needs to not be crouched like a bunny right now.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Yours a Happy Home

**Author's Note:**

> Basically [daleked](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daleked/pseuds/daleked) gives me AU prompts and I say, "Okay." This time it was gym teacher!Hoechlin and single dad!Dylan. And since that's basically the most perfect premise EVER I thought I'd give it a shot. I wanted to finish this for [donnersun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/donnersun/pseuds/donnersun)'s birthday and failed a lot. But happy belated birthday anyway?
> 
> This story literally would not exist without [LouLa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LouLa/pseuds/LouLa), but that's true of pretty much everything I write nowadays. Bless her heart and soul for being so patient with me.
> 
> All errors are my own, and if you find any PLEASE comment and let me know.

Being the new gym teacher when Field Day rolls around is like hazing for a fraternity, and Tyler finds himself in the dunk tank with alarming frequency. Thankfully it’s a hot day, and the water in the tank is nice and cool, so it’s almost worth it when another sixth grade pitching hopeful drills the target with a softball and Tyler drops like a stone.

Unfortunately one of his new colleagues is taking video with her iPhone, and the faces Tyler makes when the seat drops out from underneath him is not attractive in the slightest, and he has a feeling it will either end up looped in some hideously embarrassing compilation and sent around to the other staff or going viral on YouTube or something.

“Tell me you’re not going to post that publicly,” he pleads, water dripping into his eyes, a towel wrapped around his shoulders. She just grins wickedly and pockets the phone, because she’s not going to humiliate the third grade teacher that just took their spot in the tank, of course not.

Tyler narrows his eyes and resigns himself to his fate and goes off to watch the parent/teacher kickball game.

Other than that part of it Field Day is pretty awesome, and Tyler finds himself on the bleachers looking across the playground, taking in the rented tents and homemade carnival games, kids lined up to pluck suckers from cardboard cones or plastic ducks from the inflatable kiddie pool one of the parents had loaned out. The squat brick elementary school makes an “L” shape around the cement, windows glinting in the sun. It gives him a warm feeling, blooming in his chest as the breeze dries his hair and raises goosebumps on the bare, damp skin of his forearms.

A kid climbs up next to him on the bleachers, a little girl with her shiny brown hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail, tiny Converse sneakers scrambling over the grooved metal of the benches. She’s six, maybe seven, and wearing heart shaped sunglasses, and she almost sits in the puddle of water collecting next to Tyler’s butt.

“Look out,” he says, and she perches as close as she can without getting wet, grinning up at him. He doesn’t recognize her from any of his classes, but she might be too young for gym yet. She’s definitely too young to be wandering around by herself.

“You’re a teacher, right?”

“I am,” he says, concerned. “Do you need me to find your parents?”

“No, my daddy’s right there,” she points towards the diamond, where the parents are up to bat. There’s a blonde lady waiting to kick at the moment, and Tyler can see a guy on deck, but his back is turned. “He told me to sit up here and watch like a good girl.”

Tyler relaxes, and watches the blonde lady kick a solid gapper between the vice principal and the music teacher, and take off for first base. The guy on deck turns to cheer her on, and Tyler does a double take.

“Is that your dad,” he asks, and gestures towards the guy sauntering up to the plate, shielding his eyes with a hand as he looks out towards the pitcher’s mound, shuffling his feet into a good stance. He looks like he’s sixteen.

“Yep,” she says brightly, and then shrieks, “Go Daddy!” at the top of her lungs, making Tyler flinch.

The guy at the plate grins over, bright and quick, before focusing on the red rubber ball rolling towards him. His sneaker connects solidly, and the ball flies up into the cloudless blue sky, soaring over the heads of all the staff members in the outfield. The little girl next to him is jumping up and down next to Tyler, clapping wildly and giggling like crazy. The guy comes around the bases, rounding third, right in front of them, and shoots a double thumbs up in their direction, and catches Tyler’s eyes.

Tyler blinks, and the guy grins, puts his head down and barrels towards home plate, and the little girl screams when he jumps with both feet onto the base, arms up in victory.

Tyler watches him high five the other parents as he takes his place on the bench, and then he looks down at the guy’s daughter, who is beaming up at him, and feels like his chest is caving in.

Well, fuck.

Charlotte is her name, which she tells him after her dad takes his place in the outfield for the bottom of the inning. She’s just finishing up kindergarten, which means she’ll be in his class next year. She seems excited at the prospect, and asks him a bunch of questions about what gym class actually is. It’s easy enough to explain, because for the younger kids it’s like a more organized recess, and she’s rapt with attention while he details the weeks of dances he did with his first grade class this year.

He’s actually on his feet, demonstrating one of them, mid-bunny hop while Charlotte nearly rolls off the bleachers from laughing so hard, when he hears a dry chuckle behind him and freezes, arms bent up like paws in front of his chest.

Tyler turns his head slowly to see Charlotte’s dad watching them, lips rolled into his mouth and dimples in his cheeks.

“Daddy!” Charlotte throws herself off the bleachers and her dad grabs her just in time, making an “oomph” noise and propping her on his hip. “Mr. Hoechlin was showing me the dances I get to do in gym.”

“Oh was he.” Charlotte’s dad still looks like this is the best thing he’s seen all day, eyes sparkling in the sun. He’s wearing plaid shorts that are way too big and a white tee shirt that is almost too small, and it’s clinging to him. Tyler figures he’s probably sweaty from the heat of the day and the exertion of the game and he can see the cut of his abs through the damp fabric and he really needs to stop staring at the father of one of his students and also he needs to not be crouched like a bunny right now.

He gets his brain back online, letting his arms drop and straightening his knees, dragging his eyes up to the guy’s face, and sticks out his hand.

“I’m Mr. Hoechlin. The gym teacher.”

“I’m Dylan O’Brien. Charlotte’s dad.” Dylan grasps Tyler’s hand firmly, and he is a little sweaty, but Tyler doesn’t mind one bit. “Bunny hop?”

Tyler feels his face flush, and shrugs a little, embarrassed. “I do a lot of dancing with the younger students. They’re not exactly ready for ultimate Frisbee.”

Dylan grins, and Tyler feels that chest caving in thing again, and takes a step back. “I should go. I was just taking a break and I didn’t want to leave Charlotte alone.”

“I appreciate it,” Dylan says, and he’s just grinning and grinning. He gives Charlotte a little bounce against his side. “Say thanks, Pip.”

Charlotte reaches out her hand, palm flat and facing Tyler. He smacks his own against it, lightly, and she smiles. “Thanks, Mr. Hoechlin!”

“No problem,” he says, and hightails it towards the dunk tank.

 

He climbs up into the seat in the tank and silently hopes that the first shooter will dunk him, because he still feels warm all over from Dylan’s grin. Unfortunately the first few people in line are crap shots, and he zones out watching the crowd while ball after ball misses the target.

He’s still dry as a bone, kicking his feet and humming to himself when he sees Dylan, Charlotte tugging him along, heading straight towards the tank. Tyler’s heart thumps and he darts a look down at the person handing over their dollar bills for softballs. It’s a younger kid, and Tyler crosses his fingers against his thighs that they dunk him before Dylan looks up and sees him sitting there in his stupid lifeguard shorts and sleeveless undershirt, feet bare and hanging over the water.

The kid tosses his first ball and misses so wide the ball sails past the tank altogether and the volunteer working the booth has to run after it. Tyler groans inwardly and darts another look over at Dylan. He’s paying for a bag of cotton candy, tearing off wispy pink pieces and handing them down to Charlotte, who pops them into her mouth happily. Tyler can see the sticky sugar coating her hands from his perch, and Dylan’s fond look as he watches her get messier and messier.

The second shot misses the target as well, but it’s closer, and the kid throwing the balls looks determined to make it. Tyler starts chanting for him under his breath, and is about to just toss himself into the tank when Dylan glances up and sees him.

A smile breaks out on his face and Dylan taps Charlotte’s shoulder, pointing over at the tank. Tyler closes his eyes in defeat as the kid’s third throw thumps off the tank to the left of the target. When he opens them again Dylan is in line for the tank, and Charlotte is bouncing up and down, pink goop on her fingers, a stripe of it on her cheek.

“No hard feelings,” Dylan calls when he reaches the front of the line and Tyler is unfortunately still waiting for the water in the tank to rise up and drown him. Tyler just mutely shakes his head and watches helplessly while Dylan puts on a show for Charlotte, miming adjusting the bill of a ball cap, toeing imaginary rubber, rolling the ball around in his nonexistent mitt. He winds up in an exaggerated motion, knee up near his chin, and his upper arm comes around in the slow motion version of a pretty solid delivery, and Tyler is still staring when he hears the ding of ball on metal and the catch on his seat releases, dropping him into the water.

He stays down longer than usual, circling his arms in the water and puffing his cheeks out until he can’t hold his breath any longer, and when he bobs to the surface Charlotte’s concerned face is peering through the glass, Dylan holding her up by her waist.

“See, Pip, he’s still alive. We just dunked him.”

Tyler spits water, and Charlotte recoils, giggling, and Dylan sets her back down on the ground. Tyler sees his relief, the young art teacher who was smart and brought a wet suit, and climbs out of the tank, water running down his bare legs to pool around his feet.

“Good throw,” he says, when Dylan’s still standing there, helping Charlotte finish her cotton candy.

“Thanks.”

Tyler ducks behind the vinyl wall of the booth that surrounds the tank and strips off his wet tank top, rubbing his still damp towel over his head and chest and pulling on his tee shirt. When he comes back around he tosses the wet fabric at Dylan, making a motion at Charlotte when Dylan looks down at the shirt in confusion.

“You’re both a mess, I figured you could use it to clean up. That was my last shift anyway.” He just really doesn’t want to keep staring at the dot of pink sugar just over the bow of Dylan’s mouth, because he’s having thoughts about licking it off and he can’t even begin to catalog all the reasons that that is completely beyond ridiculous.

“I don’t want to ruin it - “

Tyler cuts him off with a wave of his hand and watches as Dylan scrubs Charlotte down and then cleans his own hands, balling the shirt up and arching an eyebrow at Tyler until Tyler takes it from him and tosses it in the nearest trash can.

He didn’t wipe his face.

Tyler is screwed.

“We’re going to play some games, do you still have to work or … “ Dylan trails off, and Charlotte slips a clean hand into Tyler’s, her fingers tiny and cool against his palm. He looks down at her, and feels like he’s falling into the tank again.

“Nope,” he says, giving in, and lets Charlotte lead him towards the duck pond.

 

Tyler spends the whole day with Dylan and Charlotte, lugging around a stuffed dog that Dylan wins her at the balloon darts, helping Dylan finish the leftovers when they get hot dogs for dinner and she can’t finish her fries, cheering them on in a three-legged race.

He sees his students, parents he knows from conferences and PTA meetings, and they all stop to make small talk and tell him to have a good summer, but none of them want him to push their kids on the swingset or sprawl in the grass with lemonades and grins on their faces after hopping around the track with their legs stuffed into a pillowcase.

“You’re a good hopper,” Dylan teases, and Tyler watches the sun sink lower in the sky, painting the few gathering clouds pink and orange.

“Lots of practice,” he tosses back. The back of his shirt rides up and the blades of grass tickle his skin, making him squirm a little. Everything smells warm and earthy, including Dylan, lying too close for Tyler’s comfort and playing airplane with Charlotte, holding her hands and propping her up on his knees, swinging them back and forth and making her laugh.

His stomach clenches weirdly when he watches them, and for the first time that day he searches out Dylan’s left hand, looks at the even tan on the fourth finger, and feels his mouth go dry. 

“Is her mom,” Tyler starts, and wants to take it back immediately when Dylan’s head turns on the grass and he’s frowning, letting Charlotte slide to the ground. “Working?” he finishes lamely, and Charlotte tries to climb back onto Dylan’s knees.

“You can say that,” Dylan says, which is cryptic and weird.

“She’s in Hollywood,” Charlotte says, and pinches Dylan until he hauls her back up into position, makes propellor noises with his mouth and holds her arms out like she’s flying.

“Ah,” Tyler says, even though that’s still not a complete answer. He waits to see if Dylan will elaborate but he doesn’t. “I should go.”

Two pairs of bright brown eyes turn in his direction, and Tyler gets to his feet, brushing grass from his legs. “Why?” Charlotte says, and it’s whiny in a way that makes him feel warm inside, because he knows that whine, and it means she wants him to stay. He wonders what Dylan wants, and then immediately tells himself it doesn’t matter, he’s going to go.

“It was nice to meet you,” Tyler says, and Dylan sits up, nods.

“Yeah, you too. Sorry we monopolized you all day, I’m sure you had other people who you could’ve spent time with.”

“Nah,” Tyler says, and waves his hand. “No worries. I had fun.”

Charlotte is pouting, and Dylan grabs her around the waist with one arm, chucks her under the chin with his other hand. “Come on, Pip, don’t be sad. You get to dance with Mr. Hoechlin next year.”

She brightens at that, and Tyler can’t help it, he makes his hands into paws in front of himself and gives a little hop, and the giggle he gets in return in totally worth feeling silly as he does it.

“See you around,” Tyler says, and backs away. Dylan lifts a hand in a lazy wave, and then curls his mouth into a grin.

“Later,” he calls, and then tickles Charlotte until she crumples to the ground shrieking, letting Tyler turn and make his escape.

He wanders through the thinning crowd as the air cools down around them, and the parents running the games are starting to pack up. He gets a few waves as he passes, and he returns all of them with a smile. It’d been a fun day, and now he had an entire summer to not think about Dylan O’Brien and his adorable daughter and his devastating grin.

*****

Because Tyler’s life is Tyler’s life he runs into them at Target three days later.

And when he says he runs into them he means they run into him, literally, when he feels something bump against his butt and he turns around to see Dylan at the helm on a bright red plastic cart, Charlotte sitting cross-legged in the basket, beaming.

“Mr. Hoechlin,” she says, and waves both hands so frantically they’re nearly a blur.

Tyler has a package of boxer briefs in his basket, and he tries to jostle it against his hip enough to get the bag of salad and packages of chicken to cover them up. “Hey guys,” he says, and reaches down for a high five. Dylan grins at him and holds his own hand up for a high five. Tyler rolls his eyes but slaps it, putting a lot more behind it than he did with Charlotte, and snickers when Dylan shakes his hand out a little after.

“We’re getting pool stuff,” Charlotte says, and gives a delighted little squirm in the cart.

“The public pool opens soon and Pip is half-fish,” Dylan says, and laughs when Charlotte makes a fish-face for him and tucks her hands under her arms to make her elbows into fins. “And since she grew out of her last swimsuit, we need a new one.”

“And a dinosaur!”

“And she fell in love with this dinosaur floatie,” Dylan explains when Tyler arches an eyebrow. “So we’re getting that as well. And that’s it.” His voice goes stern at the end and Charlotte nods obediently while Tyler feels his heart flutter a little. He clears his throat, and waves at the grocery aisle he’d been about to head down.

“I just need some eggs,” he says, kind of lamely, and gestures again. “Then I’m headed out. But uh, have fun shopping for pool stuff.”

“Come swimming, Mr. Hoechlin! You’re a good swimmer, right, you were in the tank?”

Dylan coughs into his fist, mouth curling up, and Tyler narrows his eyes at him. “I wasn’t really swimming though, that tank was too small for it.”

“I bet you are a good swimmer though,” Dylan says, and Charlotte’s eyes are wide and pleading when Tyler looks down at her.

“Please?” she asks, and Tyler is still so screwed.

“Sure,” he says, “I’d love to.” Maybe he can help her out, show her how to tread water properly and how to dog paddle.

Dylan is holding out his phone, and Tyler kind of gapes at it while Charlotte does a celebratory dance in the cart. “Put your number in, so I can tell you when we’re going.”

Tyler takes it, and swipes at the screen, and it takes him two tries to type in his name and number with fumbling fingers. He hands it back and Dylan taps at it, pocketing it just as Tyler feels his own phone buzz in his pocket. Dylan grins, and Tyler needs to go right now.

“Great, let me know when,” he says, and gives an awkward wave before turning on his heel and fleeing down the cereal aisle.

He waits until he’s back out in his car to palm his phone and slide it out of his pocket. The message from Dylan is just a smiley face emoticon, no words, but even that makes Tyler feel a little breathless, and he saves Dylan’s number without writing anything back.

*****

He’s blending himself a protein shake, sweaty from a run and standing in his kitchen in his shorts, when his phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at it to see who it is, and Dylan’s name is flashing on the screen. He panics, and scrambles for it, and the lid of the blender pops off, protein shake flying everywhere. Tyler yelps and grabs for the lid, and he knocks it and his phone onto the floor. He jerks the plug of the blender out of the wall, stopping the spray, and scoops his phone up off the floor.

“Hello,” he says, and watches a puddle of shake glop off the counter.

“Hey, it’s uh, Dylan. O’Brien.” Dylan says, and he sounds hesitant. Tyler’s chest is heaving like he just finished his run and his kitchen is covered in shake, and he still smiles helplessly. “Did I get you away from something?”

“No, not at all.”

“Oh. You just,” he trails off, and Tyler gets himself together enough to grab the dishtowel hanging from the handle of the oven door and throw it over the worst of the mess. He’s going to be scrubbing shake off the walls for days. “You sound out of breath.”

Tyler reaches for the paper towel and tries to slow his heartrate. “Just got back from a run.” It’s not a total lie. It’s not why he’s breathless, but he doesn’t exactly want to talk about how he freaked about Dylan calling and covered his kitchen in protein shake.

“Ah.” There’s silence on the other end and then Tyler hears Charlotte’s exasperated voice.

“Ask him, Daddy!”

“Oh yeah. We’re going swimming later today, Charlotte wants to know if you’d like to come along.”

There’s a bit of a scuffle and then Charlotte’s voice comes through clearer. “Mr. Hoechlin, come to the pool with us.” She giggles a little, and there’s whispering, and then she says, “Please?”

Tyler pinches the bridge of his nose, and resigns himself to day of trying not to stare at Dylan in swimwear. “Sure,” he says.

“Yay!” Charlotte squeals, and then Dylan’s voice comes through again.

“We’ll probably head over in about an hour, is that okay?”

Tyler looks around his messy kitchen. “Perfect. See you there.”

He hangs up and scrubs the kitchen down in record time, sure he’ll find shake in weird spots for the next week at least. He blends up another shake, using the last banana and putting in a dollop of peanut butter because he deserves it, dammit. Then he showers and puts on a pair of swim trunks, pulling on an old Irvine baseball shirt and slipping his feet into his favorite pair of flip-flops.

He runs his fingers through his hair, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, refusing to use gel when he’s about to go swimming. He can’t get it to stand up right without it, and ends up just brushing it down over his forehead in a weird wave, sighing at himself as he fusses.

“This is ridiculous,” he says to himself, and then nods in agreement, and rearranges his hair one more time before heading out the door.

The pool is a nuthouse when he gets there, kids shrieking and splashing and parents in various styles of swimwear shouting and looking frazzled even though it’s not yet noon. Tyler does a lap around the edge of the pool, looking for Dylan and Charlotte or, alternately, a couple of open lounge chairs.

They spot him before he spots them, and he hears Charlotte yelling, “Mr. Hoechlin, Mr. Hoechlin!” They’ve only got one lounge chair, and Dylan is spreading a bright green beach towel over it, wearing another slightly too big pair of shorts. He’s barefoot, and he grins up at Tyler from where he’s hunched over a duffel bag, pulling out water wings and a bottle of sunscreen.

“Hey,” he says, squinting against the sun.

“Hi.”

“I hope we didn’t interrupt your day, or get you away from anything?”

Tyler realizes how quickly he’d agreed to come out with them, on a Saturday, and how that might look. Then he decides that he doesn’t really care. He’s only been in town for one semester, and his coworkers are great but he hasn’t gotten close to any of them, not really. He’s not going to be embarrassed about it. “I had no plans. This is great. It’s a beautiful day.”

“It is. Hey, Pip, come here so we can get you slathered up.”

Charlotte obeys, standing still while Dylan covers her in sunscreen, and she only squinches up her face a little when he rubs it gently into her cheeks. He gets her water wings on and they follow her to the shallow end of the pool, which is crowded with kids and parents holding up their babies.

“Let’s start out here, yeah? Then we’ll take you into the deeper water in a little bit.”

Charlotte lowers herself over the side of the pool, giving a little squeak when her toes hit the cold water, and then she bobs around, slapping at the water with her hands and kicking in circles.

“Stay close, Pip,” Dylan calls when she starts to float away and she kicks back towards them, the ends of her hair dragging in the water.

“What is Pip short for?” Tyler asks, and joins Dylan on the edge of the pool, sandwiched between two moms, and they all dangle their legs in the water. It’s not warm yet, but the sun is beating down, and Tyler’s sure with all the bodies in it and the air getting warmer it’ll heat up soon.

“Pipsqueak,” Dylan says, and runs a hand over the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “When she was born she was so tiny, and I have this bad habit of making jokes when I’m overwhelmed. So I said something about her being just a little pipsqueak, and then I started calling her Pip, and it’s stuck.” He looks out at Charlotte splashing around in the water, and gives a rueful chuckle. “I’m waiting for her to get too old for it.”

Tyler’s chest is getting tight again. He wants to ask more questions, but hearing Dylan talk about Charlotte like that, with that look on his face, is going to make Tyler want to drown himself. So instead he leans back on his hands and says, “She looks like a pro out there.”

“She’s had a few lessons. Mainly how to kick, things like that. Not enough that I feel comfortable taking the water wings off.”

“I could show her a few things,” Tyler says. He points to his chest. “Gym teacher.”

“Ah, yeah. That you are.” Dylan’s eyes drop down to Tyler’s chest and then seem to take forever to make their way back to Tyler’s face. He’s sure he’s imagining it, but he’s not imagining how his throat goes dry. “If you don’t mind. It’s your vacation, too.”

“Of course I don’t mind. I’d be happy to.” Tyler pulls his legs out of the water and gets to his feet. Dylan looks up at him for a moment and then stands as well.

“Hey Pip, ready for the deep end?” he calls, and Charlotte makes her way to the edge of the pool, pulls herself up the ladder. Her teeth are already chattering a little, her hair flattened to her skull. Her swimsuit has a little ruffle around the butt, and her water wings have Spongebob Squarepants on them. Tyler’s not sure how Dylan can look at her and not want to squish her in a hug all the time.

Dylan apparently can’t resist either, because he scoops her up and lets her soak his shirt as he lugs her over to their chair.

Tyler reaches down for the hem of his tee shirt, ready to pull it up over his head, but his movements falter as Dylan wraps Charlotte in a towel to warm her up and then whips his own shirt off. He’s broad through the shoulders but narrow in the waist, and leanly muscled. His skin is covered in moles, and there’s a sprinkle of dark hair on his chest that trails down his stomach and disappears into his shorts, and Tyler feels mesmerized for a moment.

He catches himself and pulls his shirt up and over his head, wrapping it up and dropping it onto the chair. Dylan looks him over, quick but appreciative, and Tyler feels a flush creeping over his cheeks.

“Jesus, I’m like a vampire next to you. An underfed vampire at that,” Dylan says, and hunches up his shoulders. Tyler scoffs, his tongue thick and sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“You are a little pale,” he says, and quirks his mouth. Dylan laughs and takes Charlotte’s hand, and they head towards the deep end of the pool.

Dylan’s skin may be pale, but it looks really good streaming with water under the bright sun. He holds Charlotte up in the water with one hand under her belly and one on her back, and sort of zooms her around for a little. Tyler treads water next to them, using his hands to demonstrate how she should kick her feet, and it takes her a little while of splashing water into Tyler and Dylan’s mouths before she figures out how to keep them below the surface.

They make little circles in the much quieter, less populated side of the pool, Dylan holding Charlotte up and Tyler bobbing nearby, until she proclaims she’s ready to try it on her own. She starts out fine, kicking along at a fairly good speed, arms paddling, but then she goes a little too fast and swallows water and freaks out a little, spluttering and choking.

Dylan soothes her with gentle pats on the back and murmers in her ear while Tyler watches, and then Tyler lets her ride around on his shoulders while he dips up and down at a depth where he can still skim the bottom of the pool with his toes. She grabs two handfuls of his wet hair and holds on, and Dylan laughs when Tyler propels himself out of the water like a geyser, making Charlotte shriek with glee.

Tyler teaches her how cup water with her hands to make herself go faster when she paddles, and she gets the hang of it really quickly, doing laps back and forth while Tyler and Dylan do lazy overhand strokes to keep up.

When Charlotte’s lips start turning blue they get out, dripping their way over to the chair and their pile of towels, and Tyler takes over rubbing terry cloth up and down Charlotte’s arms while Dylan dries his hair, making it stick up in spikes all over his head.

“You look like a porcupine, Daddy,” Charlotte says, and her teeth aren’t chattering anymore. Dylan makes a weird trilling noise and butts his head at her, making her laugh.

“Do porcupines make noise?” Tyler asks, and Dylan shrugs, grinning.

“You’re the teacher, you tell me.”

“Gym teacher,” Tyler says, and Dylan shrugs again.

“I’m hungry,” Charlotte says, and Dylan starts packing up, dragging on his shirt. Tyler does the same, and slides his sandals back on.

“Let’s get some lunch then.” Dylan hefts the tote bag in one hand, wet towels draped over the other, and tilts his head at Tyler. “Want to join us?”

He considers it. He’s already a goner, so he might as well. “Yeah,” he says, and gets two beaming smiles in return.

*****

When a couple of the other teachers had found out that Tyler used to play baseball they begged him to help out with the summer league, which is how he finds himself standing in the sun with his favorite whistle, watching a group of kids take practice swings with light aluminum bats.

“What do you think?” Ms. Reed, one of the fifth grade teachers, asks him.

“I think we need to start splitting them up into their age groups so I can see the younger ones at the tee, and the older ones pitching.”

She nods, and claps her hands, rounding the kids up.

Tyler goes from diamond to diamond, starting with the older kids, and watches. There are some serious players in each group, and some that are probably just there because their parents want them out of the house. He can tell which is which by the way they stand at the plate, how they grip the bat, the determination in their faces. He picks out the few that look like they’re trying but haven’t quite gotten there, because he’ll offer extra help if they want to get more serious. The others he’ll let go, because as long as they’re trying and having a good time it’s likely they won’t want to put in any extra work.

He saves the youngest group for last, leaning on the fence and watching them shove little helmets onto their heads. They’re adorable in their raglan tees and tiny cleats, and some of them whiff so badly swinging for the ball that they knock the tee, or themselves, over.

One girl, or so he assumes from the ponytail sticking out from under her helmet, has a great swing, strong for someone so tiny, and when he knocks the ball off of the tee it flies over the infielders heads and she takes off for first base. He shouldn’t be at all surprised when she whips off the helmet at first pace and flashes a joyous thumbs-up at her team and it’s Charlotte O’Brien.

When she trots back to the bench at the end of the inning she catches sight of him and beams so big Tyler’s heart swells in his chest.

“Mr. Hoechlin!” she calls, and Ms. Roden, the first grade teacher that’s been wrangling the tee ball players, glances up and waves him over.

“Hey, Charlotte,” he says, rounding the bench. A line of faces turn up to him and he waves at them as well. “Hi, everyone.”

“Mr. Hoechlin is going to be helping us out this year, so we can all become the best players we can be. Isn’t that exciting?”

There’s a chorus of “yeah” from the bench, some of them more enthusiastic than others. Charlotte is doing her excited wiggle, practically vibrating as she smiles up at him.

Tyler watches them practice a little longer and then loops back around to the older kids, waving to Charlotte as he goes. He leans on the fence and makes notes on his roster, which kids he thinks would benefit from a position change (the shortstop on the majors looks like he’d fare better as a first baseman, the left fielder has good enough range that he could play center), which kids could use work on their swing or their stance.

“A whistle _and_ a clipboard,” he hears behind him, and of course it’s Dylan, of course it is. “You’re like every gym teacher cliche come to life.”

Tyler finishes his note and turns around, settling his shoulders back against the chain link. Dylan’s wearing jeans, nice ones, and a button-down shirt that pulls a little across his chest when he folds his arms. He’s got a computer bag slung over one shoulder, and he looks unfairly good.

“This is nothing,” Tyler says, because he can keep his wits about him even in the face of Dylan’s smirk, he can. “Sometimes I have a stopwatch, too.”

Dylan rolls his eyes, laughing, and Tyler hopes the grin on his face doesn’t look as dopey as it feels.

“I was watching Charlotte play earlier, she’s good,” Tyler says, and Dylan’s smirk gets softer, less crooked, more fond.

“Thanks. This was supposed to just be something for her to do while I’m at work, but she loves it.”

Work. Tyler doesn’t even know what Dylan does. And if he needs to find something for Charlotte to do while he’s working, does that mean the whole “mom’s in Hollywood” thing is real? There’s so much he still doesn’t know. But then he doesn’t know a lot of that stuff about most of his students, and that’s probably how it should stay.

“Well, she’s great. Strong swing for such a tiny thing. Did you think about signing her up for little league instead of just the rec league?”

Dylan squints over towards the diamond where the tee ballers are packing up their gear, and shrugs. “I figured I’d wait until she’s old enough for slow pitch, see how serious she is about it. I don’t want to force her into anything just because she’s good, you know?”

Tyler nods, even though he’s used to parents pushing when their kids have talent. He appreciates Dylan more laid back approach. He’s a good dad.

Ms. Reed is beckoning Tyler from the bench, probably wanting to compare notes, and Tyler straightens up from the fence. “I should go, gotta finish up here.”

“Yeah, of course, didn’t mean to keep you.” Dylan backs away a little, fiddling with the strap of his bag. “I guess I’ll probably see you tomorrow then. When I drop Charlotte off.”

“Probably,” Tyler says, and Dylan tilts his head, looks like he wants to say something more. Then he lifts his hand in a wave and lopes off towards the tee ball diamond. Tyler stops himself from watching him go and ducks around the fence to talk to Ms. Reed.

*****

Most days Dylan goes out of his way to talk to Tyler before and after practice, small talk about how Charlotte’s playing and the weather, quick little conversations that Dylan smirks his way through, making Tyler warm all over. He starts to look forward to it, to hearing Dylan’s voice over his shoulder or catching sight of him strolling over the grass with Charlotte on his shoulders, chatting with them about their evening plans before waving them off to walk home.

The last day of practice before they start organizing scrimmages Charlotte arrives holding the hand of a stranger. Well, he’s obviously not a stranger to Charlotte, but he’s a stranger to Tyler, and he approaches them slowly, frowning.

“Mr. Hoechlin,” Charlotte chirps, tugging the guy forward. He’s got a crooked jaw and sleepy brown eyes, and he’s grinning around the park like he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

“Morning, Charlotte,” Tyler says, and to the guy says, “Hey.”

“Hey.” The guy hitches his chin. “I’m Tyler.”

“Huh,” Tyler says. “So am I. Hoechlin.”

The other Tyler gets a weird look on his face, a sort of dawning realization kind of look, and gives Tyler a quick once over. “You’re the gym teacher.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says, puzzled.

“Cool. You can call me Posey, last name.” He sticks out his hand then, and Tyler shakes it. “Dylan had an early meeting in the city, so I’m playing chauffeur today. Right, Pip?”

Tyler feels a flash of irritation at this guy calling Charlotte Pip, which makes absolutely no sense. He could just be an old friend. There’s no reason for Tyler to feel jealous, of all stupid things.

One of Charlotte’s friends goes tearing past them then, running pell-mell towards the tee ball diamond, and Charlotte tugs her hand out of Posey’s grip, chasing after. Posey lets her go with the same easy-going grin he’s been wearing since they arrived, and Tyler tries not to want to punch him in the face.

“Are you staying for practice?”

“Nah, I’ve gotta get to work. Dyl should be out early enough to pick her up. But it was nice to meet you, Mr. Hoechlin.” Posey gives him a little salute, and chuckles to himself as he walks away.

Tyler swallows down a lump of irrational hatred and focuses on the task at the hand. And if he blows a little hard on the whistle when he’s putting the bigger kids through drills, no one notices.

Dylan is there to pick up Charlotte, looking harried and wearing a pair of thick-framed glasses, and Tyler’s knees actually give a little quiver when he sees him. He’s giving them an internal lecture about not being totally ridiculous when Dylan drops onto the bleachers next to Tyler with a tired sounding “oomph.”

“Rough day?” Tyler asks, and resists the urge to cuddle when Dylan shoves his glasses up his nose.

“Early day,” Dylan says, and yawns so wide his jaw pops.

“Yeah, I met Posey this morning, he mentioned something about meetings.”

Dylan glances at him sidelong, his fingers twitching on his knees. “Yeah, he told me you guys met. Is that uh,” Dylan scratches at his cheek. “Is that all he said?”

“Just that he was playing chauffeur.”

“Oh. Good.” Dylan yawns again, but brightens when he sees Charlotte coming towards them with her little duffel dragging behind. “He’s a huge help, since it’s just me out here.”

Tyler wants to ask what that means, because he still doesn’t have a straight answer on the mom situation, and he wants to know more about Posey, too, but Dylan’s pushing to his feet and greeting Charlotte with a high five, asking her about her day.

“We’re gonna start scrim- crimmage-,” she fumbles, and looks up at Tyler.

“Scrimmaging,” he supplies, and she grins.

“Yeah, we’re gonna start doing that tomorrow!”

Dylan laughs and takes her bag, looping it over his shoulder with his own. “Sounds awesome, Pip. Let’s head out, ‘kay, Daddy took the train so we’ll have to walk home.”

Charlotte makes a face and toes the dirt under the bleachers. She’s probably tuckered out from practice, and Dylan’s so tired he’s practically swaying on his feet.

“I can give you a ride,” Tyler says, and gets one excited face and one unsure face in return.

“It’s really fine, we’re not far - “

“If you’re not far then it’s really not a big deal. You look beat.”

“Thanks,” Dylan says, mock-hurt, with one hand over his heart.

“I didn’t mean it like that, you look great, just tired.” Dylan’s head jerks back a little and he grins, a small, crooked grin, and Tyler replays the sentence in his mind. He could’ve said “fine” or “nice” or anything other than “great.” He curses himself as Dylan ducks his head, takes Charlotte’s hand.

“She’s supposed to have a booster seat still, but I guess we can just buckle her in extra tightly. It’s really only about a mile.”

Tyler gathers his things and leads them out to the parking lot, to the beat up CRV he’d driven from California. Dylan hoists Charlotte up into the backseat and buckles her in, tucking her duffel in next to her, and then climbs into the front seat, dropping his head back against the headrest.

“Thanks for this. I really am beat.”

“No problem, really. Just tell me where I’m going before you fall asleep in my car.”

Dylan slants a grin at Tyler and then spends the whole car ride giving super specific directions about which lane to be in, when to put on which turn signal. Tyler rolls his eyes but follows each instruction perfectly, and they’re both chuckling to themselves when Tyler pulls up to the house, a small-ish one story on a block full of small-ish one story houses, with a neatly trimmed postage stamp of a front yard. There’s a scooter propped up next to the front steps, and a big, rangy hollyhock bush under the picture window.

“This is us,” Dylan says, and pushes the door open, going around the let Charlotte out. “Say thanks to Mr. Hoechlin, Pip.”

“Thanks, Mr. Hoechlin,” Charlotte parrots, and he reaches back to give her the now customary high five.

Dylan ducks into the open passenger door and smiles, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Really, thanks again.”

“No problem,” Tyler says, curling both hands around the wheel. Dylan tilts his head, and doesn’t back out of the car, and Tyler’s brain races, wondering if he’s supposed to say something else, if he should say something else. Then Dylan taps the roof and nods.

“Alright, see you tomorrow!” he calls, shutting the door and following Charlotte up to the front door. She’s chattering away at him and he smoothes his hand over the top of her hair where strands are flying loose from her ponytail, and Tyler counts to three to get his heart rate normal before putting the car into drive and pulling away from the curb.

*****  
A couple of days later Charlotte shows up to the park with a woman, and Tyler’s chest clenches. This is it, he thinks. He’s about to meet Charlotte’s mom. Then Charlotte calls out, “Bye Seana,” and takes off running towards her team. He unclenches a little, because while it would be weird for Charlotte to call her mom by her first name, it wouldn’t be weird for her to call Dylan’s girlfriend that.

He jogs over to the woman, who is watching Charlotte check in with the coach of her tee ball team, and gives her his most charming smile.

“Hi,” he says, and she gives him a look but doesn’t say anything back. “Are you Charlotte’s mom?”

“No,” the woman says, and starts rifling through her bag. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d have to check in. Dylan said he called, hang on I can try calling him … “

Tyler’s stomach drops. He glances over towards Charlotte’s coach, who is making a shooing motion at Tyler. “It’s fine,” she shouts across the field. “Her dad called.”

The woman looks relieved, and pulls her hand out of her purse. “God, I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to think something was wrong.”

“No worries,” he says, and start to back up. The woman narrows her eyes at him and then jabs a pointer finger in his direction.

“You’re the gym teacher,” she says. “The other Tyler.”

“Yep,” he says, and keeps backing up.

“Wait, I’m sorry, I’ve been wanting to meet you. I’m Seana. I’m Tyler’s - Posey’s - fiance.”

“Posey’s fiance,” he echoes, and she laughs, looking delighted.

“That’s me. Tyler - Posey, sorry, it’s so weird that there are multiple Tylers - couldn’t drop Charlotte off this morning, and Dylan had an early start again, so I offered. It takes a village, and all that.” She’s watching him carefully, still looking delighted, and he wants to run away even more than he did before.

“Oh.” It’s not his best conversational effort, but he has literally no idea what to say to all that. “That’s nice.”

She laughs again, and goes back to digging through her purse, pulling out her phone. “Uh huh. Well, it was nice to meet you, Tyler.”

He nods, and she’s tapping away at her phone, smiling to herself, as she turns away. He’s confused about the whole situation, why she’d been studying his face, how both she and her fiance had immediately known he is the gym teacher, and why they both exclaimed it with such gleeful looks on their faces.

Maybe Charlotte talks about him to them? It’s a nice thought, and an uncomplicated one, so he holds onto it as he makes his way back towards the diamonds.

Dylan shows up early, and he’s got a giant bottle of Mountain Dew in his hand, chugging it sluggishly as he drops onto the bleachers. Tyler’s still working with the outfielders on the older team, but he feels like his eyes are zoom lenses, narrowing in on Dylan’s throat as he drinks. He gets thumped in the shoulder by a softball while he’s zoned out, and some of the kids laugh while he rubs the spot.

“Ha ha,” he grumbles, and retrieves the ball from the grass, tossing it back to the nearest kid. “Go get changed, your parents will be here soon.”

Tyler takes his time collecting all the balls scattered over the diamond, tossing them into a bucket several yards away. He glances over now and then and Dylan is watching him, leaned back with his elbows propped on the bench above, sun glinting off the lenses of his glasses.

He’s still watching as Tyler hands off the bucket and makes his way over to the bleachers, perching next to Dylan on the warm metal.

“Hey,” Dylan says, and wiggles the fingers of one hand in a sort of wave.

“Do you only wear your glasses on days you have to be up early?”

Dylan squints up at him and scratches the side of his face. “Not only, but I’m pretty unmotivated to put my contacts in when it’s still dark outside and I’m barely awake. I almost poked my eye out once, it was not cool.”

Charlotte comes over then, saving Tyler from saying something ridiculous like “you look cute in glasses,” and she’s not nearly as bubbly as she usually is. Tyler had watched her play a little earlier, and she’d seemed fine, but now she’s almost pouting, dragging her bag behind her.

“What’s up, Pip?” Dylan asks, leaning forward to put an arm around her. She clambers right up onto his knee and tucks her face into his neck, mumbling. “What? A fight?” He looks up, alarmed, and then Charlotte untucks her face, swipes her hand under nose.

“He said I throw like a girl. Coach yelled at him, but it hurt my feelings.”

Dylan face kind of crumples, and he presses a hand against the side of her head, pushing it back down on his shoulder. He grimaces at Tyler, who wants to put his arms around both of them and then maybe go find the kid that made Charlotte sad and force him to do laps until he pukes.

“I’m sorry your feelings got hurt, Pip. But you shouldn’t listen to kids who are just trying to be mean. He’s probably jealous because you’re awesome, or maybe he had a bad day and was just taking it out on you because you were there. It doesn’t mean you’re bad at throwing, okay?”

Charlotte nods against his shoulder, and Dylan throws Tyler another helpless look.

“Hey, Charlotte,” Tyler says, and she peeks out from under Dylan’s chin. Her eyes are a little wet, and red-rimmed, and he wants to wipe all the sadness from the world so she never looks like that ever again. “I have a secret to tell you. Can you keep a secret?”

She perks up, lifting her head and nodding. She holds out a hand solemnly, pinky crooked, and Tyler fights off a grin, wanting to keep it serious, and hooks his pinky with hers.

“You throw a ball better than a lot of the kids in this league,” Tyler says, and her mouth quavers a little, like she wants to smile but can’t quite yet. “And it doesn’t matter if you’re a boy or a girl, you can throw awesome. That part’s not a secret.”

She does smile then, and kind of tips forward off of Dylan’s lap to give Tyler a hug. Tyler catches Dylan’s eyes over the top of her head, and he’s wide eyed, smiling.

“I think someone deserves pizza for dinner, what do you say, Pip?” Dylan says, and Charlotte gets down so she can do a little dance in place. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Dylan stands up too, and hefts both his computer bag and Charlotte’s duffel onto his shoulder. “You coming?” he asks, looking down at Tyler. 

“I … what?”

“After cheering my kid up like that I’d say you deserve pizza, too. Come on, come to dinner with us.” The last part almost sounds like a challenge, but Dylan is watching Charlotte dance, not even looking at Tyler anymore. Charlotte does a quick little pirouette and tugs on Tyler’s sleeve.

“Come on, Mr. Hoechlin. Pizza!”

She grins up at him, all trace of her earlier pout gone, and he can’t remember the word that means the opposite of yes to save his life, so he stands up and claps his hands together. “Pizza!” he says, though he can’t match Charlotte’s enthusiasm, and gets one of her full-body wiggles in return. “I’ll drive?”

Dylan grins, and they troop off to Tyler’s car.

 

Charlotte’s choice is an old Italian place in the historic downtown area, with a brick oven and red checked tablecloths. It’s an odd pick for a kid, Tyler thinks, but the waitress brings Charlotte a stack of blank white paper placemats and an old fashioned pencil case filled with stubby crayons, and she seems perfectly content to hunch over the table and scribble away while Dylan orders an antipasto salad and cheese bread and sausage, mushroom, onion pizza.

They get a pitcher of soda and Tyler pours them each a glass, and Charlotte lifts hers carefully with both hands to take a sip, and then sets it down on her drawing, tracing around the bottom to make circles and then turning the circles into animal heads. She draws floppy ears on one, and a pink triangle for a nose, and gives it a lumpy body with a fluffy tail. “It’s a bunny,” she says, when Dylan points it out, and Tyler does the arm-paws again to make her laugh.

“You’re from California?” Dylan asks, when Charlotte’s absorbed in her drawings and the waitress has taken their menus away. Tyler startles slightly, and cocks his head, and Dylan grins. “Your license plate.”

“Oh, yeah.” He’d forgotten it wasn’t changed yet. “Yeah, I only moved here about six months ago. Around winter break.”

“That must’ve been a shock to your system,” Dylan says, and bends to retrieve a crayon when it rolls off the table. “We had a pretty harsh winter, snow-wise.”

“It was novel though, for me. I love snow.”

“You won’t if you stick around long enough. A couple of foot-high snowfalls in a row and you’ll be ready to hightail it back to the West coast.”

“Nah,” Tyler says, and he really believes it. He’d loved California, but New York is it for him. He’d wanted to move close to the city since he’d first been there in high school. “I won’t mind it. Shoveling is good exercise.”

“I’m going to remember you said that. I have a driveway that will be calling your name come November.”

Tyler feels an odd lump in his throat at the thought, and takes a gulp of soda to try to wash it away. “Uh, what about you? Are you from here?”

“Not _here_ , here, but New York, yeah. I actually lived in California for a little while as well. Thought I’d be an actor.” He laughs, and reaches out to smooth Charlotte’s hair, looking a little wistful. “This one here changed my mind. I moved back here because it’s close to my parents, but not too close. And you know,” he gestures towards Tyler, smirking. “Great schools.”

Tyler ducks his head, and the waitress brings out the salad then. They divvy up the meats and cheeses and veggies, and Charlotte keeps drawing with one hand while her other delivers pepperoni from her plate to her mouth.

“Why’d you move out here?” Dylan asks, and Tyler wipes his mouth with his napkin.

“Job opened up. I had a coach - baseball, I played in college - who had a friend that taught out here. I wasn’t really going to school for anything academic, I was trying to go pro, but then I got injured. He got me into the phys ed program, and his buddy just happened to want to retire around the same time I graduated so,” he spreads his hands, “here I am.”

“Wow. That sucks. I mean, not the you being here part, obviously, but. You know. The injury.”

Tyler shrugs. It had sucked at the time, but he fell in love with teaching his first hour of field work. “It is what it is. I’m happy now, doing this.”

It comes out sounding more about the dinner than about his life, and he can feel himself blushing. He bites into a pepperoncini to give himself an excuse to make a face, and Dylan laughs at him, shoving the soda pitcher closer.

The pizza comes out steaming hot and gooey with cheese. Tyler almost drools when he sees it, because he rarely allows himself to have pizza, and he misses it constantly. “That looks amazing,” he says, and actually waves his hand over the top to waft the smell towards himself. “Smells amazing too.”

“Best pizza in town, right Pip?”

She’s blowing on the slice that Dylan slides onto her plate and nods vigorously, lips pursed.

It is sinfully good, and Tyler actually has to close his eyes when he takes his first bite, the sauce just a little sweet on his tongue. When he opens them Dylan is watching him, and his eyes look glassy. Tyler chews slowly, and Dylan shakes his head, looks down and takes his own bite. Tyler has spent the last couple of weeks telling himself that there’s nothing going on, there can’t be, but maybe he’s been wrong.

It’s time to ask the question he almost doesn’t want the answer to.

He sets down his slice of pizza and leans forward a little on his elbows. He tries to be as quiet as possible, just in case the question upsets Charlotte. She’s busy picking sausage off her slice of pizza and popping it into her mouth, humming happily as she chews and adding embellishments to her drawing in between bites, so he goes for it. “What’s the story with her mom?”

Dylan glances at Charlotte, who doesn’t look up, and leans forward too.

“She stayed in California. Didn’t want,” he jerks his head towards Charlotte and Tyler nods, “in the first place. Said if we had her I could keep her. She has a career, movies and a television show, didn’t want to ruin it. I wanted Charlotte more. So I moved us out here, where I have friends and family to help out, and we talk to her now and then. Birthdays and Christmas, for the most part.”

“I’m sorry,” Tyler says, and Dylan gives him a lopsided smile.

“It is what it is,” he says, repeating Tyler’s earlier words. “I’m happy now, doing this.”

“What do you do?”

Dylan is taking a huge bite right when Tyler asks, and Tyler waves his hand, lets him chew and swallow and take a sip of soda before he answers. “I write for a television show. And occasionally direct. Mostly write, though.”

“That’s awesome,” Tyler says, and he’s a little taken aback. It’s a pretty sweet gig for a guy that looks so young. Then again he has a six-year-old daughter, so who knows how old he actually is. “How old are you?”

Dylan laughs, and keeps laughing through the waitress bringing them a fresh pitcher of soda. “I’m sorry, I just, I get that a lot. I’m 24. Young for all this, I guess, huh?”

“Yeah, but that can be an advantage.” Tyler watches Charlotte coloring happily, pizza sauce smeared on her cheek. “You’re doing great, anyway.”

Dylan’s eyes are soft over the table, and Tyler’s chest caves in for the thousandth time.

“Thanks.”

Tyler doesn’t ask about Posey or his fiance, and the “you’re the gym teacher” thing, but he does find out a little bit more about Dylan. Like what show he works on (“Oh hey,” Tyler says, slightly shocked, “I watch that every week!” Dylan blushes, and it’s a good look on him, bright spots of color filling in under his cheekbones.), that he had a YouTube channel when he was younger (“I absolutely am not going to give you the name,” Dylan insists, and shakes his head when Tyler prods. “That’s fine,” Tyler says, and grins wickedly. “I’ll just Google your name later, I’m sure it’ll come up.” Dylan’s spluttering tells him he’s right about that.), and that his favorite baseball team is the Mets.

“No way, I’ve got an old teammate playing for them right now,” Tyler says, and Dylan’s eyes get wide.

“You’re kidding, which one?”

“Ike Davis, the first baseman.”

“Uh, yeah, I know who Ike Davis is. Holy shit, oops.” Dylan claps a hand over his mouth and Charlotte looks up from the small dish of spumoni.

“Pay up,” she says, and Dylan grimaces, pulling out his wallet and plucking a dollar bill from the folds, slapping it into Charlotte’s upturned palm.

“We have a cursing penalty,” Dylan explains, as Charlotte happily tucks the money into her pocket. Tyler laughs, and then snatches the bill folder when the waitress sets it down in front of him.

“You are not paying. We invited you,” Dylan says, reaching across the table. Tyler pulls the folder back and shakes his head.

“It’s my pleasure, please.”

Dylan narrows his eyes. “I’ll make you a deal. You get us awesome tickets to a Mets game, and let me buy dinner.”

“I can get you awesome tickets to a Mets game anytime, that’s not much of a deal.”

“Not us,” Dylan says, and makes a gesture that encompasses the whole table, including Tyler. “ _Us._ ”

Tyler gapes at him, stunned, and Dylan uses the advantage to snatch the bill from Tyler’s slackening fingers.

“Deal?” he asks, tucking a card into the folder and laying it on the edge of the table. He’s grinning, nonchalant, and Tyler tries to tell himself it’s just because he loves the Mets and Tyler has a connection, he’s just being nice, it doesn’t mean anything, and manages to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Uh, deal.” Tyler gulps the watered down dregs of his soda, and Dylan starts collecting the crayons from the table, piling them back into their little plastic box. Charlotte is stacking her drawings, and she slides one placemat out of the pile and over towards Tyler.

“Here, Mr. Hoechlin, this is for you.”

There are stick figures all over the placemat, tiny ones and larger ones, some holding baseball bats. Charlotte’s drawn herself in the corner, or he assumes it’s her from the messy brown ponytail coming out of the back of the stick figure’s head and the blobs of bright orange on the stick figure’s feet. Next to her is a taller stick figure, with something around its neck that could maybe be a whistle. And right behind that figure is another one with square black glasses on, and spiky brown hair.

“Thanks,” Tyler says, stunned again, and stares at it while Dylan signs the bill, and gets Charlotte cleaned up and ready to go.

He’s quiet in the car while he drives them home, and Charlotte falls asleep in the backseat. Dylan has to lift her out, her head lolling on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he whispers, leaning into the car. Tyler shakes his head.

“Thank _you_ ,” Tyler says, and watches them until they’re inside.

When he gets home he sticks the drawing to his refrigerator with a piece of Scotch tape and stares at it some more, thinking about how very, very fucked he is.

*****

The first real tee ball game is a Sunday morning against the rec league team from a couple of towns over. Tyler loves tee ball games, loves the chaos of not keeping score, and kids running the bases backwards in their excitement, and half a dozen outfielders playing their own game that looks suspiciously like tag.

“Should we be trying to keep them in a vague resemblance to a position?” Tyler asks, watching one girl doing somersaults in deep right.

Holland laughs, and nudges another kid out towards the tee. “What’s the point? None of the balls make it out there anyway, and they’re having a good time. If they want to play, they pay attention.” She points out towards one boy, leaning over with his elbows on his knees, glove dangling between. “See?”

Tyler helps keep time for the innings, such as they are, and cheers every time a kid crosses home plate. Charlotte requests a high five every time she’s at bat, and she’s so adorably serious when she bends her knees into her batting stance that Tyler claps extra hard every time her bat connects with the ball, his palms stinging.

Dylan’s in the bleachers with Posey and Seana, and they’re organizing chants, making the assembled parents clap in synch. A couple of them are rolling their eyes but most are laughing and clapping along, and the kids are delighted, skipping along the base paths while the small crowd chants their names.

The “let’s go Pip” chant is the loudest, and Dylan leaps off the bleachers to cheer when Charlotte lands with both feet on home plate. Charlotte doesn’t look embarrassed, like the older kids would, she just flashes her double thumbs-up at the stands and trots back to the bench, looking flushed and excited.

“I scored a run, Mr. Hoechlin,” she says, and he gives her another high five. 

“You sure did.”

When the game is over he helps pack up, tucking bats away into a duffel and wandering the diamond with a mesh bag, collecting balls. Holland is handing the kids off to their parents, some of them sticking around to make small talk, and Dylan gives her a peck on the cheek while Posey lets Charlotte climb up onto his back and does a galloping lap around the bleachers. Her giggles carry all the way across the field, and Tyler can’t help but grin, watching.

Dylan catches him at it, and he ducks his head to continue his sweep of the outfield, and the grass is so long and lush he doesn’t hear footsteps approaching, just someone clearing their throat. He figures it’s Dylan before he even looks up, because of course it is.

“Good game, Coach,” Dylan says, smirk firmly in place. Tyler rolls his eyes and re-adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder.

“Thanks, uh,” he falters a little, then finishes lamely, “parent.”

Dylan gives a spluttering sort of giggle, his cheeks creasing. “Hey, what’re you doing next Saturday afternoon?”

Tyler hears the question but it takes him a second to process it. Dylan’s eyes are amber in the sunlight, and he’s smiling so wide, and he might be asking Tyler out. He blinks a couple of times, sweat prickling on his upper lip and the small of his back.

“There’s a game,” he says, stalling, and Dylan waves a hand dismissively.

“I know, in the morning. I mean after. Like one-ish.”

Tyler’s mind is whirring, because the morning game is for the older kids, and there’s no reason for Dylan to know that unless he checked the schedule. And if Charlotte’s team plays on Sundays Dylan would have no reason to check the schedule for Saturday unless he wanted to know when Tyler was free. Tyler might be freaking out a little at the prospect.

“I’m free,” he says, slowly, and thinks _to hell with it_. If Dylan is okay with asking him out then he’s going to be okay with going out with him. He’s going to be really, really okay with it, actually. He’ll have to check that he’s not going to get fired, but as far as morality goes he figures it’s up to the parent and maybe even the child, if the child is old enough, or opinionated enough, as in Charlotte’s case - 

He realizes Dylan’s been talking while he’s been thinking, and shakes his head just as he hears. “ - cake, and a few kids, but we’d like you to come.”

“Huh?”

Dylan squints at him, laughing. “Did you zone out there, Coach? I said Charlotte’s birthday is next week, so we’re having a party on Saturday. It’s just going to be a little lunch and cake, and a few kids, but we’d like you to come.”

“Oh.” Tyler feels himself blushing, kicks at the grass sheepishly. Of course Dylan wasn’t going to ask him out. He’s an idiot for even thinking it. Who says he’s even attracted to guys? Tyler is a world-class idiot. And he’s taking too long to sort through his thoughts again because Dylan is stepping closer, ducking to search his face.

“Are you okay? You seem really out of it.”

“Sunstroke, maybe,” Tyler croaks, and takes a step back.

“Oh man. You should get home, then. Lie down.”

“Yeah, I should.” He starts back towards the benches, so what if there are a few balls still littering the grass. Someone else can have them. He needs to get away. “I’ll see you later,” he calls back over his shoulder as he flees, leaving Dylan standing in the overgrown grass of the outfield.

He leaves in a rush, not even saying goodbye to Charlotte, where she’s running around with Posey and Seana. He climbs in his car and knocks his head back against the headrest.

He needs to go for a run or something. Clear his head.

Or he needs to get a shit load of Mexican food, ice cream, and liquor and eat himself into a coma on his couch. Even better plan.

*****

The plan seems awesome when he’s practically face down in his beans and rice with a mostly-tequila margarita on the rocks next to him at his kitchen counter, but the next day it seems like the worst plan ever. His mouth tastes like a mariachi band died inside of it, his stomach is rolling, and his head feels like it’s shriveled to the size of a dried bean in his skull.

He guzzles a bottle of Gatorade and takes two extra-strength Tylenol, and keeps his sunglasses firmly in place when he drives to the park, stopping off for a giant coffee and a greasy breakfast sandwich on the way.

He’s going to have to spend three hours in the gym that afternoon, and he still doesn’t feel any less stupid about thinking Dylan was going to ask him out, and then basically running away when he was wrong.

His only consolation is he didn’t say any of what he was thinking out loud. But he’s still pretty sure Dylan now thinks he’s a giant freak.

Sunstroke. Honestly.

Dylan is of course leaning against the chain link of the backstop fence when Tyler arrives, and he literally chugs the remains of his coffee as he crosses the grass, hoping the jolt of caffeine will make him witty enough to shrug off the weirdness of the day before. Dylan fidgets when Tyler gets closer, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and shuffling his Adidas in the dirt.

“Look,” Dylan says, and Tyler gives his empty coffee cup a shake, hoping against hope that there’s something left sloshing around in the bottom to drink. He should’ve gotten two. His stomach gives a weak flip as Dylan bites his lip nervously, scratching the side of his face. There’s a slight rasping noise, and Tyler can see the stubble - barely noticeable but definitely there - curving around Dylan’s jaw. It’s not fair, his defenses are down, and he wants to rub his own unshaven jaw against Dylan’s to see what sounds that would make.

He clears his throat, because he knows his hangover voice, and his turned on voice, and the combination of the two is too indecent for the early hour. “Morning,” he says, and it’s still too gravely to be normal, but he remembers his genius excuse for bolting yesterday and gives a meager cough into his fist.

“Still not feeling well?” Dylan asks, and he might actually be buying it this time.

“No,” Tyler says, and hunches his shoulders, trying to look as pathetic as possible. He’s sure he doesn’t really need to try, not with the way he feels this morning, like he’s been hit by a truck with Dylan at the wheel. Dylan presses his lips together and hums sympathetically.

“I was hoping you weren’t just freaked because I invited you to Charlotte’s party.”

Tyler coughs for real this time, surprised, and claps a hand over his mouth. He shakes his head, and Dylan relaxes against the fence, hands sliding into his jeans pockets.

“Good. Because Charlotte really wants you to come. Tyler - Posey - and Seana will be there, and possibly Holland. Crystal and her boyfriend might come, too, I’m not sure. You won’t be the only, you know,” Dylan lifts a shoulder.

“School employee,” Tyler offers, and Dylan glances away, shoulder still lifted.

“Yeah, that. You won’t be the only one there. If that’s what made you uncomfortable.”

Tyler stares at the side of Dylan’s face until Dylan turns back to him, and then drops his eyes to the ground. “Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll come?”

“Okay, I’ll come,” he says, and looks up to see Dylan grinning at him, pushing away from the fence.

“Awesome. Pip’ll be stoked.” He tugs a hand free from his pocket and looks down at his watch. “Shit, I gotta run or I’ll miss my train. Later.”

Tyler lifts a hand and watches him go. He’s not going to be disappointed that Charlotte was the one who wanted to invite him, or that other school employees are attending the party. It’s flattering in the first place, and Charlotte’s a great kid. And it’s nice to know that in the smaller town where he now lives he’s allowed to be closer to the kids and their parents. He remembers his hometown being like that, and he thinks it made his school experience better.

He puts the other thoughts out of his head and focuses on those positives. He’s got a week’s worth of practices and games to get through, and he has to figure out a present.

Good thing he has almost a week to do that, because he has no idea what to get a six year old girl. Charlotte doesn’t seem to quite fit into the mold that toy marketers target; he’s yet to see her wear anything with a Disney princess on it, and come to think of it he hasn’t seen her wear anything pink at all. Not that he’s seen her much outside of tee ball, where she wears a tee shirt with her team name on it and baseball pants, and her orange cleats.

She doesn’t talk about television the way some of the other kids do, and the only cartoon character he’d seen her wear was Spongebob, on her water wings, and Dylan could’ve picked those out because he likes the cartoon. Tyler wouldn’t put it past him.

The “girls” aisle at Target is kind of discouraging. All the dolls are either creepy baby dolls that move their joints jerkily while staring up at you with dead eyes, or Barbie-type dolls with way too much makeup on, and some of the least age-appropriate clothing Tyler has ever seen in his life. He can’t believe these things are marketed for impressionable youth. 

The little girls’ clothing section isn’t much better, and Tyler feels partially blind from all the glitter and sequins and neon, and he wonders why people would pay so much money for so little fabric, or something that looks like it’s been run through a woodchipper. He spends a few minutes holding a tiny tube top and fretting about the future of humanity before escaping towards electronics.

He could buy a movie. There are a ton of them that he’d loved as a kid, and even more that he’s watched since then in his studies. Pixar is always a win, but Dylan also seems like a Pixar guy, so who knows how many of them they already own.

Tyler feels like lying down on one of the display futons and curling up in the fetal position, and he’s on his fifth lap of the store, a “Dora the Explorer” DVD that he’d grabbed out of desperation clutched in his hand, when he passes the sporting goods and gets an idea.

He leaves the Dora DVD behind and leaves empty handed, and hopes his idea doesn’t end up being awful.

*****

Tyler spends a good portion of Saturday’s game trying not to get too rumpled and dwelling on the bright orange gift bag in the backseat of his car. He alternates between worrying that it’s a dumb gift, and worrying that it’s too much, and it’ll give everything away. He gets caught zoning out when a kid is rounding third when he should be stopping and Tyler’s too caught up in his own stupid head to give him the sign to stay put.

He gets thrown out at home and Tyler feels guilty as hell, so he gets back in the game and tries not to worry about the dirt getting kicked up onto his legs every time someone slides into the base.

He’s still grimy when the game is over, but he’s already late, because the game had gone into extras. It’s like the softball gods know he has plans. Then he feels like an idiot for thinking the softball gods care about the ridiculous crush he has on a student’s dad, and rolls his eyes at himself in the mirror above the sink in the public bathroom before wiping himself down with a wet paper towel.

The party is in Dylan’s backyard, and there are bright balloons tied to the lightpost out front, cars lined up at the curb. Not a pink balloon in sight, but there are orange ones, and Tyler gives his gift bag a smug glance in the rearview as he triple checks his hair.

He can hear kids squealing before he comes to the end of the driveway, and a low murmur of adult voices. When he rounds the corner of the house into the backyard people glance over and he gets a variety of greetings: a few waves, a sort of fist pump from Posey, and a squealed “Mr. Hoechlin” from Charlotte and a couple of other kids.

Dylan is nowhere to be seen, and Tyler finds Holland’s flaming red hair in the crowd, heads for her like a beacon, his gift tucked in the crook of one elbow.

“How was the game?” she asks, and brushes something from the shoulder of his tee shirt. He’d brought a nicer one to change into after, ducking into a stall to peel off the sweaty shirt he’d worn during the game. He’d even pre-sprayed this shirt with cologne, and only felt mildly idiotic when he’d done it. He’s glad for it now, because Holland isn’t wrinkling her nose at him, despite him still feeling sticky and kind of gross.

“Fine, it was fine.” He’s distracted, roaming the backyard with his eyes, taking in the slip ‘n’ slide that the kids are lining up for, Crystal watching over them with an old-fashioned sunhat shielding her face, the yellow plastic tablecloth spread over a card table under a spreading oak tree, corners held down by rocks, and the pile of gifts on the picnic table on the small square of cement that extends out from the back steps.

“He’s getting drinks,” Holland says, and Tyler whips his head around, gaping. She’s not smirking at him or looking at him oddly at all, just stating a fact, but it’s alarming still that she knew he was looking. “Go put your gift down and stop making that fish face at me.”

He snaps his jaw closed and goes.

He’s balancing his bag on a giant box covered in wrapping paper with cartoon frogs on it when the back door slaps open. “Coming through,” Dylan calls, hands full of plastic cups, even though there’s no one standing in front of him. He doles out the drinks and heads back for the house, presumably to get more, and his eyes slide over Tyler before snapping back, a smile spreading over his face. “Hey, you made it!”

“Yeah,” Tyler says, and backs away from the presents, hands held out to make sure his bag doesn’t topple over. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No big. Game, I understand. Want a drink?”

“Sure. Let me help.”

Tyler follows him into the house, because he’s curious, and whatever, wants to be alone with Dylan even if it doesn’t mean anything. Dylan is buzzing with energy, scooping ice out of a bag in the freezer and pouring soda, splashing liquor into certain cups.

“Don’t give a kid a whiskey on accident,” Tyler says, and the corner of Dylan’s mouth that Tyler can see quirks up.

“They’re color coded,” he says, like he’s letting Tyler in on a huge secret, and Tyler laughs. Of course they are.

“Make me a green one, then,” because those are the ones Dylan’s splashing rum into, and Dylan obliges, handing it off with a wink.

Tyler carries a few of the orange and yellow ones - the kid drinks, according to Dylan - out to the slip ‘n’ slide and puts them into waiting, grabby hands.

Charlotte swipes her wet hair out of her eyes and plucks an orange cup out of Tyler’s fingers. “Thanks, Mr. Hoechlin,” she says, and gulps down half of it in one go.

“Slip ‘n’ slide is thirsty business, hey?” he asks, and she nods, all serious, and takes another gulp. “Happy birthday,” he says, though her real birthday was two days ago and he’d already said it at the park.

“Thanks.” She beams at him and hands him her empty cup, trotting off to get back in line, the ruffle on her swimsuit bouncing. Crystal pats her on the head and smiles over at Tyler, who straightens up from his squat and smiles back.

Posey talks him into basketball in the driveway, the hoop attached the garage rusting, the backboard chipped. It looks well-used, well-loved, and the way Posey navigates the cracks in the cement Tyler imagines he and Dylan spend a lot of time out here, shooting.

They play HORSE, and Tyler’s on HO after missing a ridiculous shot from behind the garbage cans, when Dylan wanders over.

“What you got?” he calls, and Tyler lines up a shot, jumps, then grins when it rolls around the rim twice before falling in.

“Ho,” he calls back, and Dylan lays a hand over his heart, mock scandalized.

“Who, me?”

“Not in front of the children,” Posey says, and Tyler keeps the toe of his sneaker in place until Posey comes over to take his spot.

“He’s just mad because he’s a HOR,” Tyler says, standing next to Dylan so he can say it quietly, and Dylan chuckles even though it’s an old, lame joke.

“He’s usually pretty bad at this game,” Dylan says, and leans against the garage, ankles crossed. He’s barefoot, Tyler’s just noticing, and something about it feels weirdly intimate, even though they’re surrounded by people. He’s having feelings about ankles. He needs at least three more drinks.

“Put your money where your mouth is, O’Brien,” Posey says, and bounces the ball towards them.

Tyler loses, mostly due to being distracted by Dylan’s jump shot, the way he has to hike up his cargo shorts after, the way he laughs sort of breathlessly when Posey tries to climb onto the lid of a garbage can and ends up halfway inside it when the plastic caves in.

“If the city fines me, man,” Dylan says, bent over double and panting, “you’re paying.”

Posey grumbles and makes the shot anyway, the basketball bouncing off the rim and into the backyard.

“Daddy, I’m hungry!” Charlotte shouts from the edge of the driveway, dripping into the grass with a towel around her shoulders, and Dylan gets himself together enough to light the grill, leaving Tyler to watch helplessly as he flips burgers and turns brats, wearing an apron with a unicorn on the front of it that Charlotte had brought out to him.

A couple of the parents engage him in small talk about the rec league, and where he’d lived before New York, but it’s not distracting enough for him to miss Dylan wiping sweat off his forehead as he stands over the grill, leaving a smudge of ash over his eyebrow. Tyler’s hands slip a little on his cup, sweat and condensation making his palms clammy, and he drags his eyes back to the mom in front of him, nodding along while she goes on about the importance of physical education.

Tyler loads up on pasta salad and carrot sticks (no dip), and only takes one burger bun out of the package. Cookouts are hell on his diet. Dylan gives him a grin when he gets to the front of the line, taking the bun from Tyler’s plate and laying it on the grill, toasting it.

“The burgers taste better that way,” he says, and winks, and Tyler literally cannot stop himself from reaching up with one damp thumb and wiping the ash off of Dylan’s skin. Dylan startles a little and then goes totally still while Tyler rubs above his eyebrow, and the grill marks on Tyler’s bun end up being black instead of golden brown.

“Ash,” Tyler says, and drops his hand, rubbing it on his shorts and making a face he hopes at least approximates a grin while Dylan ducks his head to slide a burger onto the toasted bun, plopping the whole thing onto Tyler’s plate.

He drops onto the grass, crossing his legs like a pretzel, to eat. The burger is fantastic, charred bun or no, and a couple of the kids he knows from tee ball gather around him in their swimsuits and trunks to babble at him about nonsense while they eat.

His skin doesn’t stop buzzing, and he’s only had two rum and cokes.

He has a third after cake, before presents, because he figures he’ll need the fortification, and the first two were absorbed by the second burger he’d been talked into by Posey and Seana. He lolls on the grass, full and warm, kids chattering around him, while Dylan brings the pile of presents to Charlotte’s seat of honor at the edge of the patio.

She’s got a cover-up on over her swimsuit, a little white sundress type thing, and her hair is drying in a ponytail, and she’s so adorably excited about her presents that Tyler feels a little thrill for her. Dylan’s practically glowing, watching her tear paper off of boxes and exclaiming over each toy or outfit like he’s just as excited as she is. Tyler wants to drown himself in rum.

His present is plucked off the dwindling pile about halfway through, and he sits up straighter, his heart pounding a little harder in anticipation. Part of him wants to lunge forward and snatch the bag right out of her tiny hands, take off running and never look back. Dylan takes the card and slits open the envelope with a finger while Charlotte drags handfuls of tissue paper out of the bag.

“Oooh,” she says, and her arms disappear up to the elbows before she lifts them back out, cradling Tyler’s present in her hands.

Dylan’s still reading the card, and he glances back over his shoulder to catch Tyler’s eye, grinning, before he looks back at Charlotte.

“Daddy, it’s a new glove!” she cries, and holds it out to him like she’s afraid she’s going to drop it, like it’s made of glass and not the finest leather Tyler could find at the sporting goods store in the city. He’d rubbed it with oil the night he bought it, closing the little glove around a tee ball he’d stolen from the rec league and tying it with twine. He’d left the rest of the conditioning oil and twine in the gift bag, and Charlotte pulls them out with a frown.

“It’s for breaking it in,” Tyler calls, and Dylan looks back over his shoulder. Tyler can’t read his face, and he’s suddenly incredibly worried that he’d done something stupid; what if the glove she uses now has some sentimental value? He’d looked at it once in practice and it seemed newer, synthetic, the cheap kind you can buy at a department store, but who knows. “It still needs a little more breaking in,” he says, and Dylan is touching the twine tied around the glove gently, still looking back over his shoulder. “I could show her how?”

He feels his face heat up, and it seems like everyone at the party is staring at him. It’s a moment no longer than a second, when it seems totally quiet and still, Dylan staring at him with his neck craned sideways, the long pale expanse of his throat curved, eyes wide. Then he grins, and Tyler lets out a breath.

“Thanks, this is awesome,” he says, and turns back to Charlotte, taking the bag and putting the oil, twine, and glove back inside of it.

“Thanks, Mr. Hoechlin,” Charlotte calls, and reaches for the next present, and Tyler chugs the rest of his drink before yelling back.

“You’re welcome.”

When the presents have all been opened Charlotte takes the bubble machine she’d gotten from Posey to the corner of the yard and starts it up, and all the kids run through the shower of bubbles that pop out of it, shrieking and jumping around. Tyler joins in the cleanup effort, wadding up as much wrapping paper as he can reach and carrying an armful to the dented garbage bin.

He passes Dylan on his second trip, and Dylan reaches out to touch his elbow. He almost drops a load of bows and ribbons and tissue paper in the driveway.

“Thanks for the glove. I can tell it’s quality. That was really nice of you.”

Tyler wants to say it’s no big deal, that he’s glad they like it, that he hopes it wasn’t too much, and all the words get tangled up behind his teeth, so he stammers a little when he says, “No problem. I just hope it wasn’t too presumptuous.” He’s proud of himself for pronouncing that right on the first try, with the way his tongue feels tied up in knots, his stomach twisting up in a similar fashion.

Dylan tilts his head and scratches at his jaw, a move so familiar to Tyler now that it makes his chest ache a little, and he has that same jarring desire to reach out and touch the same spot, though the alcohol makes him want to run his tongue along it, maybe bite it a little. He blinks a couple of times and shoves that thought down.

“Why would it be presumptuous?”

“Well, you know,” he starts, and shrugs. “Gloves can be sentimental.”

Dylan’s face softens, a smile curling his lips, and he reaches out to touch Tyler’s elbow again, just a graze of his fingertips over the bend of it, brushing over the knob of bone. “They can be, but her old one wasn’t.”

Tyler wishes the “this one will be” was said out loud, not just in his head, but Dylan pulls away, turns on his heel and goes back to the party.

He dumps the garbage into the bin and decides to head out, and makes his round of goodbyes as quickly as possible, crouching down for a hug from the birthday girl and waving at Dylan across the yard. Dylan waves back, but he frowns, and Tyler bolts. Again.

He calls himself stupid all the way home.

*****  
Charlotte brings her new glove to practice the next day and gives Tyler an extra enthusiastic high five before scampering off towards the tee ball diamond. She looks adorably serious out in the field, punching into the pocket of the glove every few seconds, and she seems to sort of pet it before she tucks it back into her bag. It gives Tyler a ridiculous warm and fuzzy feeling when he sees it, which helps offset the weird buzz of nerves he feels when Dylan comes to pick Charlotte up, and the swoop of disappointment in his stomach when all he gets is a wave from across the park.

Dylan doesn’t make an effort to seek Tyler out all week, though his waves seem jaunty enough, and Tyler spends every evening that week on his couch watching the trashy soap-style dramas that networks seem to pick up every summer that he knows won’t last more than a season. And if he feels a strange affinity with every lovelorn teenage sap on the CW who cares. He’s watching them alone, it’s not as if anyone would know.

Friday Posey’s the one walking Charlotte across the park, and he makes a beeline for Tyler as soon as Charlotte peels away towards her coach.

“Hey,” Tyler says, glancing up from his roster sheets. Posey isn’t grinning in his usual cheery, laid-back away. He looks a little like a pissed off puppy, actually.

“What’s your deal, dude?”

Tyler is taken completely aback. That’s actually an understatement. Tyler is flummoxed. He has no idea why Posey would be pissed off at him. They’d been fine at the party. He hasn’t done anything to Charlotte to make her caregivers mad and he and Dylan have barely spoken all week.

He wonders if that’s it. If Posey thinks it’s Tyler’s fault that he and Dylan aren’t really speaking. Which it totally isn’t, Tyler would be more than happy to spend his entire morning and afternoon talking to Dylan. Dylan’s the one that hasn’t approached him.

Then again it’s a two-way street, he supposes.

“What do you mean?” he asks, choosing to play dumb.

“Your deal,” Posey says, like that clarifies anything. “With Dylan.”

“I don’t have a deal with Dylan,” Tyler says, heart starting to hammer against his ribs. He has no idea where this is going. Does Dylan think he’s been flirting with him? Did he really cross the line with the glove and Dylan was just too nice to say something?

“Yeah, and that’s the problem.” Tyler crosses his arms and glares. “You can’t just flirt with a guy and then take off, dude. That’s not cool.”

“I … “ Tyler has no idea what to say. He’s tried so hard not to flirt. And now Dylan doesn’t want to talk to him and Posey’s pissed. “I haven’t been flirting with Dylan,” he tries, and Posey nearly growls.

“Bullshit. You’ve both been giggling at each other like teenagers and honest to god if I have to watch you gaze at each other for another second I’m going to throw up. So why do you keep running away?”

“I’m not - wait.” Tyler rewinds what Posey just said in his head. He said “both.” They’d both been giggling at each other. Which is categorically untrue, because while Dylan may occasionally do that spluttering thing that’s pretty close to a giggle Tyler has never giggled in his life. But the “both” thing, that’s the part that sticks out. “I’m sorry, did you say both of us have been giggling at each other?”

Posey’s eyebrows stay furrowed but his arms drop to his sides and he seems to deflate a little. “Oh my god, so you’re both total idiots. That’s good to know. I thought I was going to have to step up like a good bro and try to kick your ass. And like, I’m totally not saying this in an ‘I want your body’ kind of way, ‘cause I really don’t, but you’re totally ripped dude, and I’m pretty sure you could beat me up with one arm tied behind your back.”

“Uh, thanks?” Tyler’s trying to wade through that statement for relevant bits, and Posey kind of pats him on the shoulder, like he’s consoling him.

“You’re welcome. Now maybe get your head out of your ass and ask Dylan out, because I’m pretty sure he’s too stubborn and stupid to ask you out.” Posey starts backing away while Tyler stares after him, frozen in shock. “Put us all out of our misery.”

Tyler’s still gaping after him when someone blows a whistle to start practice, and he almost gets brained by a softball later in the day when he’s standing near first base replaying the conversation in his head. He almost convinces himself that he’d hallucinated the whole thing, because getting a lecture from Posey about “manning up” enough to ask Dylan out - just the implication that Dylan would say yes - doesn’t seem like something that could actually happen.

At the end of the day Posey is there to pick Charlotte up, and he shoots Tyler a look that might be menacing on anyone else, pointing his finger, and Tyler nods at him across the park, message received.

Time for him to bite the bullet.

 

He definitely does not bite said bullet the next day, or the day after that. Instead he stares across the shaggy green grass, immobilized with fear. What if Posey was wrong? What if Dylan shot him down? He has to see Dylan, and Dylan’s kid, nearly every day for the foreseeable future. He doesn’t want to make that awkward.

The third day after Posey’s lecture Tyler gathers up enough courage to cross the park to Dylan’s side, rehearsing what he’s going to say the whole way. He feels like he’s walking in slow motion, or like he’s in one of those dreams where he’s running towards something but it keeps getting further away. When Dylan looks up and sees him coming his face goes through a few different odd expressions, his cheeks stretching to accommodate an odd grimace-like frown and then a nervous half-smile, and Tyler’s mind goes totally blank in fear.

“Uh, hey,” he says, totally lame, and notices he’s waving kind of jerkily before he can stop his hand from making the motion.

“Hey.” Dylan shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Tyler expectantly, and Tyler wants the ground to open up under his feet and swallow him whole. He bets the soil underneath the too-long grass would be cool against the heat of his cheeks.

“Long time no see,” he says, and immediately wants to smack himself in the face. Dylan squints at him, lips pressed together in a straight line.

“I saw you two days ago.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t talk.” And now he sounds like a clingy teenager or something, god. Someone should really come put him out of his misery.

“Oh yeah, sorry, I guess I was in a hurry?” Dylan isn’t looking at him now, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the ground. Tyler uses the break in eye contact to squinch his face up in absolute horror, because this is the most awkward conversation he’s ever tried to have in his life.

“Gotcha. Look, I - “

“Actually, I gotta go. Work.” Dylan looks back up, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, and Tyler just nods dumbly.

“Oh sure. Okay, yeah, see you.”

He watches Dylan practically jog away.

Not his finest moment.

That night he flops into bed and buries his face in a pillow and calls himself a colorful variety of names before sitting up to give himself an epic pep talk. He’s asked people out before. He’s even asked out people who have turned him down. And he’s lived to tell the tale. There’s no reason this one should be so freaking hard.

And yet it takes me three more days to actually get the words out of his mouth.

It doesn’t happen the way Tyler thinks it’s going to happen. He’d pictured the park, the sound of the kids behind them and the sun making Dylan’s eyes bright and whiskey-colored. Instead he’s at a gas station, huddled next to the pump while his tank fills, hiding from the torrential downpour of a vicious summer storm. He’s wearing cut-off sweats and a tee shirt with a hole in the armpit and a tear in the neckline because he’d just been to the gym, one of his favorite rainy day (or any day, really) activities.

So of course he’d run into Dylan, because why not. He’s shivering under the overhang when Dylan’s car pulls up to the pump next to him, Charlotte waving excitedly from her carseat in the back.

She’s shouting, “Hi, Mr. Hoechlin!” when Dylan opens his door, and Tyler waves back.

“Hi, Mr. Hoechlin,” Dylan echoes, and his grin is silly, totally unlike the cautious smiles Tyler’s been getting all week, and it makes warmth spread through Tyler’s limbs despite the slight chill in the damp air. He has no idea why Dylan isn’t being guarded the way he has been at the park, but Tyler’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Dylan,” Tyler says, and sets his shoulders. _You can do this_ , he tells himself, and feels a rush of adrenaline flood through him. “Go out with me.”

Dylan fumbles the nozzle, missing the opening of his gas tank a few times, and Tyler bites his lip when he notices Dylan’s hand shake as he sets the handle to keep the gas flowing while he turns his back to the car. There’s a bright bloom of color on each of his cheeks, and a smile stretching out across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dylan’s smile gets wider, opening up to show teeth, and then he’s doing that splutter of a laugh that makes his shoulders hunch up. Tyler thinks being laughed at would normally be the worst way to get turned down but something tells him Dylan isn’t laughing because he thinks Tyler’s request is ridiculous.

His thought is confirmed when Dylan says, “Yeah.” No question mark.

Tyler laughs then too, because Dylan looks so _pleased_ , and he kind of wants to sidestep the gas pump and put his arms around him. Instead he runs a hand through his sweaty hair and nods, still smiling.

“Great.”

His pump clicks then, tank full, and the sound startles him back to reality, to the smell of gasoline and the rush of the rain. He gets himself together while he replaces the nozzle and his gas cap, and Dylan’s still grinning to himself when Tyler turns back around.

“When?” Dylan asks, and Tyler shrugs.

“Whenever.”

Dylan bites his lip and now Tyler just wants to lunge at him, press him up against his car and kiss him so thoroughly he won’t be able to work his limbs well enough to drive away. But Charlotte’s in the backseat watching them, and they’re at a gas station of all places, so Tyler starts backing away around the bumper of his car.

“Tomorrow,” Dylan says, leaning around the pump to watch him go.

“Tomorrow,” Tyler agrees, and because he knows they’ll see each other in the morning he doesn’t say anything else, just climbs into the CRV and drives away, smiling so hard his cheeks are sore by the time he gets home.

*****

Unsurprisingly, Tyler is a wreck by the time he gets to the park in the morning.

He’d spent so long rifling through his sad collection of tee shirts that he’d run out of time and hadn’t been able to shave, so he’s sporting far more stubble than he’s used to, and it’s itchy as hell. The tee shirt he’d settled on has a stain on the hem, lord knows from what, and he’d grabbed mismatched socks.

Okay, both socks were white, but one came further up his ankle than the other, and the ribbing on the top didn’t match.

He’s a basket case.

He’s got his whistle in his mouth, clamped between his teeth because he needs something to chew on and his pencil’s already destroyed, when someone taps him on the shoulder. He damn near swallows the thing as he spins around, and spits it out so fast it sounds like he’s blowing a raspberry.

Dylan laughs while Tyler wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, face heating up.

“Good morning,” Dylan says, and his mouth curls up in one of the flirtiest smirks Tyler’s ever seen in his life. Tyler gets the urge to run a dozen laps around the park, and maybe jump some of the benches like hurdles. His palms are sweating.

Dylan looks like he knows all of that and is enjoying the hell out of it.

“Good morning,” Tyler grumbles, and rubs his palms on his shorts.

“I have a confession,” Dylan says, and looks around before taking a step closer to Tyler. All the hair on Tyler’s arms stands on end. “I just want to get it out in the open, start things off on the right foot, you know? I talked to Posey the other day. He told me about your talk.”

“Ah.” It makes sense. It certainly explains why Dylan was pleased to see him at the gas station instead of parking as far away as possibly and barely acknowledging his existence. “It was more of a lecture than a talk.”

“Yeah, sorry. He’s a little over protective.”

“It’s nice.”

They grin at each other for a moment, standing too close in the muggy summer air, Dylan rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and Tyler wanting to drag him off into the trees to makeout like teenagers.

“So anyway. Date,” Dylan says, and Tyler blinks, clearing the mental images he probably shouldn’t be having amidst this many children.

“Tonight.” Tyler confirms. “Dinner?”

“Dinner would be great. Posey agreed to watch Pip, so I could meet you - “

“No,” Tyler interrupts, and then shrugs a shoulder sheepishly. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Oh,” Dylan says, dragging it out like a revelation. “You’re an old fashioned kind of guy.”

“Maybe a little. Is that okay?”

Dylan nods, slowly, and leans in a little more, the space between them getting warmer. “I kind of like it.” He leans back, steps away, and Tyler lets out a breath. “I’ve never been courted before.”

Tyler rolls his eyes, but his heart is thumping so fast in his chest it’s almost one solid beat. “You make me sound like an old man.”

“It’s cute. What time should I be ready?” He flutters his eyelashes ridiculously and Tyler thinks _fuck_ because he’s pretty sure he’s already hopelessly in love with this idiot.

“Seven?” Tyler asks, and Dylan flashes his double thumbs up.

“Posey’ll be picking Pip up here, so I’ll see you then.”

Practice crawls by after that, even when Tyler joins the older team for some of their drills to work off some of his nervous energy. He wishes he had tires or ropes or something and he could set up an obstacle course, run it with them. He has to settle for sprints, and shagging fly balls during batting practice. He’s pleasantly sweaty at the end of the day, but still thrumming, and when he sees Posey heading straight for him, Charlotte’s hand in his while she chatters on beside him, the buzz of anticipation gets a little stronger.

“You’re welcome,” is the first thing Posey says.

“Thank you,” Tyler says, and means it. Posey just tilts his head back and forth, like it was no big deal.

“You know I have to give you the best bro speech, right?”

Tyler glances down at Charlotte, who’s looking between both of them, clearly trying to puzzle out what they’re talking about. “No need,” he says to Posey, and holds out a hand for Charlotte to slap. “I get it.”

Posey nods, and then grins, close to a leer. “Have fun,” he sings, and leads Charlotte away.

*****

 

The contents of his closet end up piled on his bed. The bathroom counter is littered with tubes and jars. He’s shaved, moisturized, cologned, and dressed.

It’s six thirty. The drive to Dylan’s will take approximately ten minutes.

Tyler debates a few time killing options before deciding he needs to get out of the house or he’ll go crazy - or change his shirt, again - so he drives to Dylan’s neighborhood and parks around the corner from his house to wait it out.

He’s scrolling through the plays from the previous night’s Mets game when there’s a knock on his window.

It’s Dylan.

Tyler’s face flames and he fumbles at the buttons for the windows, rolling down the back one first. He gets the right one open, the window sliding down to let in the sound of the breeze through the trees lining the street, and Dylan’s chuckle.

“Hey,” Tyler says, casual, like it’s totally normal to be parked around the corner from your date’s house fifteen minutes before the date is set to begin.

“Hey yourself. Why are you parked on this street, you know my house is around the corner.” It’s a statement, not a question, but thankfully Dylan looks more amused than creeped out, and Tyler relaxes slightly.

“I’m early,” Tyler offers, hopeful Dylan will leave it at that. Tyler hadn’t planned on expiring from embarrassment before the date even got started. “What are you doing here?”

“Posey was taking Pip out for ice cream and drove past you. I got a phone call saying you were lurking out here.”

“Not lurking,” Tyler says, but Dylan’s grinning playfully. “I should’ve parked two blocks over.”

Dylan laughs, and Tyler sinks back into his seat, relieved. “I’m ready now, if you want to go. Or should I go back to the house and wait for you to pick me up?”

Tyler unlocks the doors and gestures towards the passenger seat, and before he knows it Dylan’s angling into the car, filling the interior with his smell and his smile and the buzz that Tyler gets just from Dylan being in his near vicinity. He wraps his hands around the steering wheel so Dylan can’t see them shake, and clears his throat.

“Ready for dinner?”

Dylan looks thoughtful, leaning slightly over the middle console. “Not quite yet.” And then he reaches out and puts a hand in the middle of Tyler’s chest, fingertips just brushing the bare skin exposed by the vee neck of Tyler’s black shirt. It’s a light touch, not even a press, but Tyler feels it like a punch, and goes breathless. He’s about to open his mouth, to say what he has no idea, when Dylan leans further over the console and kisses him straight on the mouth.

His lips are dry, and a little chapped, and Tyler is so shocked he barely recovers with enough time to kiss back before Dylan’s pulling away, leaning back into his seat, his eyes wide and bright.

“Okay, now I’m ready.”

Tyler gapes, his hands still on the wheel, feeling Dylan’s touch still on his chest like he’d been branded. Dylan quirks his mouth while he buckles his seatbelt.

“I thought that’d take the pressure off a little,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “That way I don’t have to wonder if you’re going to kiss me later.”

Tyler’s slowly getting his wits back, and Dylan looks so smug in the passenger seat, so pleased with himself that Tyler can’t help but want to give a little back. “I’m still going to kiss you later,” he says, voice gruff. Dylan’s eyes damn near sparkle.

“I hope so,” he says, and then claps his hands together. “Now come on, I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

Tyler takes them to the same pizza place they’d gone to with Charlotte, because the town is small and something about red-checked tablecloths and old-fashioned, nubby yellow glass candleholders appeals to Tyler. Plus he’d been craving their antipasto for weeks.

“I hope this is okay,” he says when he parks, and Dylan looks up at the dark green awning fondly and nods.

“Perfect.”

Their order is the same as last time, except they get beers instead of soda, and they sip their Peronis while they bicker over who gets what off the giant salad plate.

“You can have all the pepperoncini if I can have all the olives,” Dylan says, giving Tyler ridiculous doe eyes across the table. His fork is hovering over the edge of the platter, poised and ready to flick each olive onto his own plate.

“How is that fair?” Tyler asks, knocking Dylan’s fork with his.

“You can have all the pepperoncini and all the salami.”

Tyler furrows his eyebrows. The salami _is_ delicious. “Deal.”

Tyler doesn’t really like pepperoncini, so he piles them up on one side of the salad to make room for Dylan’s olive pilfering, and he’s so happy about it Tyler can’t even be upset when all he’s left with is vinaigrette-soaked lettuce, salami, and a few slices of cheese.

Dylan pops an olive into his mouth and smiles across the table, and Tyler thinks _fuck it_ and scoops up another wedge of mozzarella.

“Is this weird?” Dylan asks while Tyler’s enjoying the fat-and-calorie-laden slice of dairy heaven on his tongue, and he almost chokes when he swallows hastily, his stomach plummeting. He must look alarmed because Dylan’s hand shoots out over the table, nearly taking out Tyler’s bottle of beer, and clamps onto Tyler’s wrist. “Not this,” he says, and gestures between them with his other hand, “not, like, us. On a date. Not that.”

Tyler presses the heel of his palm to his chest and swallows a couple more times, reaching out for his water and taking a few tentative sips. “Oh,” he says, and coughs again.

“Sorry. I just meant that this doesn’t feel like a first date.”

“What do you mean?”

Dylan squeezes Tyler’s arm, his thumb pressing against the bone of Tyler’s wrist, before sliding his hand away. He shrugs. “We know a lot of the first date stuff already, you know? And like … “ he trails off, and reaches for his beer bottle so he can pick at the label with his thumbnail. He mumbles something Tyler doesn’t catch, staring down at the tablecloth.

“I didn’t hear that,” Tyler says, and leans forward over his salad plate.

Dylan looks up, mouth quirked in a self-conscious smile, and Tyler’s chest feels like it’s caving in the way it always seems to do when Dylan’s involved. “The first time we were here felt more like a first date to me.”

The pizza arrives then, and Tyler lets himself stare at Dylan across the table while the server sets up the stand and places the pizza tray on top. Dylan’s smile gets wider, and then it’s a grin, dimples forming in his cheeks, and Tyler can’t decide if he wants to throw himself over the hot pizza to get to Dylan’s mouth or knock himself out with his beer bottle.

He opts instead for sliding his foot forward under the table until it bumps into Dylan’s, making Dylan’s grin go crooked and a little silly.

“Yeah,” Tyler says when the server has left again, and Dylan shakes his head, laughs.

“Shut up and eat your pizza.”

Tyler does.

Dinner flies by; they talk about Charlotte a lot, of course, and Dylan tells Tyler more about his work. They talk about California, the parts of it they loved, the parts they miss, and then Dylan tells Tyler more about New York. Tyler mentions that he’s never seen a show on Broadway and Dylan fakes a fall off his chair before proclaiming that they have to go sometime, there’s nothing like it, and Tyler spends the next five minutes watching Dylan talk and not hearing what he’s saying because the implication that the date was going well enough for Dylan to imagine them going away together - Tyler has to chug the rest of his beer, it’s so huge.

They don’t order dessert, and Tyler has to swat Dylan’s hands away from the bill because he asked, so he wants to pay. Dylan sits back in his chair and grins, kicks Tyler’s foot under the table.

“I’ve got next time then,” he says, doing it again, implying that this is just the beginning, and it’s the most promising first date Tyler’s ever been on. It’s also the first time that he feels so invested in there being a second one, and more, and a lump lodges in his throat and refuses to leave.

Tyler didn’t plan beyond dinner, but he doesn’t want the date to end. He stands on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, under the awning, hands in his pockets, and looks around. Dylan is sucking on a starlight mint he’d snagged from the bowl at the hostess station, a foil wrapped stack of leftover pizza slices in one hand. He reaches out with his other and tugs on Tyler’s wrist, pulling his hand out of his pocket and sliding their palms together, Dylan’s fingers spreading Tyler’s and then curling around them.

He grins at Tyler around his mouthful of mint and tilts his head back over his shoulder, gesturing down the street. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Tyler lets himself be pulled gently down the sidewalk, and tries not to worry about being seen by other parents. He doesn’t know if he’s more worried about being outed - as a gym teacher in a small town he figures it’s a legitimate concern - or about being out with a parent, but he’s tense enough that Dylan notices, and unlaces their fingers with a frown.

“Sorry,” Tyler says, flustered, because he misses the contact enough that he’s thrown by it, his hand still curved like it’s holding Dylan’s. “I just,” he flaps his hands a little, lost. “If we get seen,” he starts again, but Dylan frowns deeper, and Tyler gets frantic, wanting him to stop. “I’m a teacher, you know?”

Dylan nods, comprehending, and rolls his lips into his mouth then lets them pop out on a gust of breath. “Gotcha.” He looks up and down the street, at the few people milling about, window shopping or smoking outside the bar. “I didn’t really think about that.”

“Is it a problem?”

“Not with me,” Dylan says. “I have a kid, I’m used to overthinking all dating situations. I went over it in my head, trust me.” He laughs, rueful. “A lot, in fact. You’d think in a town this small something like this would cause a scandal, but the principal of the school married a parent a year or so ago, I think as long as we’re not running around town getting drunk and throwing bricks through shop windows or having sex in the park - “

Tyler makes a noise, a surprised sound that flies out of his mouth before he can stop it. Dylan is blushing furiously, and it’s so cute Tyler can’t stand it. He steps forward into Dylan’s space, reaches up to touch one flush-hot cheek, and kisses him.

It’s not as quick as their first kiss, but it’s just as chaste, Tyler barely applying any pressure at all. Still Dylan hums a little, vibrating under Tyler’s fingertips, and smiles against Tyler’s mouth until Tyler pulls away.

“If you’re trying to persuade me to have sex in the park,” Dylan says, and Tyler laughs, surprised.

“I promise I’m not,” he says, and Dylan pouts a little, holds out his hand for Tyler to take.

“Bummer,” he says, and bumps their shoulders together as they continue down the sidewalk.

They walk enough for Tyler to wish he hadn’t guilted himself out of dessert at the restaurant, and the night is still warm enough for him to pause in front of a little frozen yogurt place on the corner near where he’d parked. The inside of the shop is bright and full of teenagers, enjoying the later curfew of a summer weekend. Dylan nods, smiling, and they go in.

It’s a build your own kind of place, pick the flavor and as many toppings as you can fit into a cup without spilling, and then pay by the weight. Tyler thinks it’s a novel idea, and loves it even more when he gets to witness Dylan’s soul-deep fretting over whether or not start with a chocolate base or cake batter.

“You gotta have a theme, so it’s not just a hodgepodge,” he says, and Tyler repeats “hodgepodge” with a laugh, making Dylan narrow his eyes. “Shut it, it will be if you don’t put some thought into it.”

Tyler nods solemnly, and then fills his cup with strawberry, to Dylan’s disdain.

“Fruit froyo, really? You’re severely limiting your topping options, dude.”

Tyler piles on Oreo cookie crumbs and a few brownie bites, and pumps chocolate sauce on top while Dylan decides between peanut butter cups or Heath bar chunks.

Dylan’s yogurt is obscured by toppings and two kinds of sauce - “peanut butter _and_ chocolate, naturally, why have one when you can have both” - and he has to start eating it immediately after it’s weighed and paid for so it doesn’t rise up and take over the entire place.

“Ha ha,” Dylan says when Tyler voices that concern out loud, licking sauce from a bright pink spoon. Tyler watches the flick of his tongue on the neon plastic and a cookie crumb goes down the wrong pipe, making him cough. “Don’t be jealous mine is obviously superior to yours.”

“Mine is awesome,” Tyler says, affronted.

“You only have one sauce,” Dylan says, like it’s final, end of argument. Tyler rolls his eyes and takes an extra large bite, smacking his lips.

All in all it’s a pretty great date, and Tyler’s skin is buzzing when he pulls up in front of Dylan’s house, anticipation sparking over his nerve endings. Dylan unbuckles his seat belt, and Tyler feels like he’s moving in slow motion when he leans forward over the console, mirroring Dylan’s move from earlier in the evening. His last coherent thought is that the other two kisses that night did nothing to dull the thrill of the goodnight kiss, and then Dylan’s mouth is on his.

Dylan parts his lips almost immediately, and he still tastes like chocolate when Tyler hesitantly slips his tongue inside. The little noise that Dylan makes, inhaling sharply through his nose, makes Tyler lightheaded, his heart thumping inside his chest.

“Well,” Dylan says, tilting his mouth away but leaving his forehead pressed to Tyler’s. “I should get inside.”

“Of course,” Tyler says, and sits back into his seat. Dylan grins and holds up his foil packet of pizza.

“Thanks for dinner. And dessert.”

“Thanks for coming out with me.”

“Thanks for finally asking.” Dylan winks, a ridiculously exaggerated gesture that makes Tyler chuckle, and then pops the door open, sliding out of the car.

“Thanks for getting your best friend to threaten me,” Tyler says, and Dylan laughs, giving a jaunty wave through the window when he closes the car door and loping up his front walk. He waves again when he’s got his door unlocked, but Tyler sits at the curb grinning until Dylan’s inside, and even a little longer after.

*****

Dylan texts him the next morning, something he doesn’t usually do, just a “hey” and a smiley face, but it still makes Tyler grin up at his ceiling for a few minutes, warm and a little hazy from sleep. He’s also hard, because it’s morning, and he’d been dreaming about Dylan, and he can’t help the images that flit through his mind while he jerks off in the shower, ridiculously domestic scenes from his dream that should not make him come as hard as he does.

If he’s that turned on by hand holding and dreaming about cuddling he’s in for it when they actually sleep together.

Tyler buries that thought the best he can so he can go face his teams without feeling like a lecher, and since it’s all older kids playing that day he doesn’t have to worry about facing Dylan or Charlotte, and only has to deal with a few random text messages throughout the day.

 _Made the mistake of telling Pip I had ice cream last night. Have to take her today now. Think I’ll go the Heath bar route this time._ comes in when he’s chatting with a couple of parents after the first game, and he thumbs out a quick reply.

_Frozen yogurt, not ice cream._

The response comes in a few seconds later. _All the same to Pip - delicious frozen treats._

Tyler can’t think of what to say to that, so he sends back a colon and a capital “P” and leaves it at that.

Charlotte has a game on Sunday, and Tyler wakes up to another text from Dylan, _See you at the game, Coach. ;)_.

He feels nervous when the kids start arriving at the park, but Charlotte runs up for her customary pre-game high five and Dylan is only slightly smirkier when he waves at Tyler from the bleachers. Posey and Seana are smirking, too, and Tyler pulls the brim of his cap lower, ducking his head to hide his blush from the other teachers and parents.

After the game the whole group comes over, and Tyler flounders a little, not sure how to act or what to say. Posey takes over, clapping him on the shoulder and saying, “We’re free to babysit basically any night this week.”

Dylan looks like he can’t decide whether he wants to be embarrassed or pleased, and his face contorts a few times before he rolls his eyes. “Gee, thanks, buddy.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tyler shrugs, and debates his options. He wants to say “tonight” but thinks that might be too eager. He thinks about waiting until Friday but that’s just way too long. He settles on, “Tuesday?”

Dylan’s eyes crinkle up when he smiles, and he nods, and Tyler’s so used to feeling like his chest is caving in by now that he thinks he’d almost worry if it didn’t, and he waves as they all walk away, Dylan and Seana holding each of Charlotte’s hands and swinging her between them.

 

_Can I pick you up this time?_

Tyler’s sprawled on his couch Monday night, sweating through his tank top and not paying attention to SportsCenter when his phone buzzes, and he reaches for it so fast he knocks it off the coffee table.

 _If you really want to._ he writes back, because he knows he’d get an argument if he tried to tell Dylan no. He’s kind of enjoying the thought of it, actually, until he looks around his living room and realizes he hasn’t swept his floors in more than a week and there are dustballs in the corners that could probably classify as pets if they get any bigger.

He thumbs out his address and hits send, then lets his phone fall to the couch as he pushes to his feet. He can do a quick scrub down of the whole place, it’s not that big, and still get enough sleep to not have bags under his eyes for his date, but only if he gets cracking now. So he does just that.

He collapses into bed after a frenzy of sweeping and mopping and dusting and shoving everything on every random flat surface into one of his emptier kitchen cupboards, then kicking all of his clothes and shoes into his closet. His phone is clamped in his hand, the last message from Dylan still up on the screen.

_Literally cannot wait._

 

Dylan shows up promptly at seven, knocking on Tyler’s door and then grinning when Tyler has it open while Dylan’s hand is still raised, knuckles poised. “I lurked around the corner for a little but you didn’t find me,” he says, and presses his knuckles to Tyler’s shoulder, shoving a little.

“You did not,” Tyler says, and then, “and I wasn’t lurking!”

Dylan chuckles, and Tyler kisses his smiling mouth.

“Come on, lurker,” Dylan says when Tyler pulls away, and jerks his thumb over his shoulder at his car. “Ready to go?”

They’d decided to see a movie this time, as unoriginal as it is as a date idea, because there’s a new comic book movie out that they both want to see, and frankly Tyler wants to hold Dylan’s hand in the dark while stuff blows up on a big screen, because he’s a walking cliche and he’s totally fine with it.

Dylan gets a giant tub of popcorn for them to share, even though they’d both had huge sandwiches at the deli they’d stopped into before the movie started. Tyler holds their sodas and watches, horrified, as Dylan turns the tub under the butter spout for at least a minute.

“Your arteries,” Tyler groans, brows furrowed, and Dylan laughs.

“Our arteries,” he says, and shakes extra salt onto the top while Tyler frets.

He still eats his share of the greasy popcorn, reaching in at the same time as Dylan and muffling a laugh when Dylan steals the kernels he’d been reaching for with his buttery fingers. Dylan pops one into his mouth with a triumphant grin, and Tyler barely waits for the lights to dim for the trailers before he leans forward and licks salt and butter off of Dylan’s mouth.

Dylan isn’t smirking anymore when Tyler’s done with him, and it’s Tyler’s turn to grin triumphantly when Dylan shifts a little in his seat, glaring.

“Dirty pool,” he mutters, flicking a piece of popcorn at Tyler’s face.

“Sh,” Tyler says. “Watch the previews.”

They hold hands in the dark while stuff blows up on the big screen, and Tyler’s heart flutters through the whole movie.

 

Their third date is Friday, and they go bowling. Tyler thumps Dylan pretty spectacularly in both games they play, despite the distraction of Dylan in skinny jeans and bowling shoes, his tee shirt rucking up when he throws his ball, revealing a pale stripe of skin and a mole that sits just above his waistband in the dip of his back.

Tyler wants to put his mouth on it, and is so overwhelmed at the thought that he drags Dylan into the alcove near the pinball machines and kisses him until they’re both panting, pressed together tight. They’re both hard, and they both know it, and Dylan’s eyes are sparkling when Tyler drags his mouth away from Dylan’s and blinks around, suddenly worried that they’ll get caught.

“Yeah, we’re in public,” Dylan says, but he’s laughing, and he shifts his hips just a little closer, making Tyler’s breath catch in his throat.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. We should stop.”

Dylan groans. “We should. But for the record, that sucks.”

Tyler’s laugh is surprised out of him, and he pulls away slowly, back out into the arcade.

“Pinball?” Dylan suggests, tugging the hem of his tee shirt lower over the bulge of his fly.

They play a little pinball, then end up at the tiny bar near the shoe rental with pints of beer and an order of onion rings in a plastic basket between them. There’s a bright green stuffed bear there too, because Dylan had seen it in the claw machine and insisted on wasting many dollars trying to pluck it out for Charlotte. Tyler eyes it up, thinking. It’s only their third date, and he doesn’t know if it’s appropriate, but the subject has to broached eventually, because he’s in it to win it at this point, so finally he just blurts it out.

“Are you going to tell Charlotte about us?”

Dylan finishes chewing the bite of onion ring in his mouth and licks grease from his fingers. “Yeah.”

He’s so casual about it, and it soothes Tyler, making him sag a little on his barstool. “That’s good.”

“Were you worried?”

Tyler spins his glass between his hands, shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe a little? I mean, I’m guessing it’s a big deal. I’ve never, you know, dated anyone with a kid before. But I imagine that it’s harder for a single parent, figuring out when and how to tell their kid about potential significant others.”

Dylan slides a hand across the lacquered wood of the bar and wraps his fingers around Tyler’s wrist to still him. “You’re not just potential, you know.”

Tyler flicks a look up at him, and Dylan’s eyes are so bright in the weird yellowish lighting of the bowling alley. Tyler feels like someone is squeezing him around his ribs, but in a good way. “Oh.”

“And yeah, it’s hard, because I want the best for Pip at all times, but Tyler. Pip thinks you’re totally great. That’s not going to change because we’re together. And if she’s worried about anything, we’ll work through it. Together.” Dylan flinches a little then and pulls his hand back. “If that’s what you want.”

“Of course that’s what I want, why wouldn’t that be what I want?”

“Not everyone’s cool about parental stuff,” Dylan says, and he sounds bitter. Tyler can’t decide if he wants to hunt down Dylan’s exes and punch all of them for making him sound that way or thank all of them for being jerks so Tyler gets a chance to be awesome at this.

“Well, I’m cool about it. Or I will be, when I get the chance to.”

Dylan looks up at Tyler through his eyelashes, and a smile spreads across his face. Tyler smiles back, a little helplessly, but it goes crooked with a question when Dylan pulls out his phone. He holds up a finger to Tyler and jabs at the screen with his thumb, then holds it up his ear. He’s still holding Tyler’s gaze with his finger in the air when the person he’s calling answers.

“Hey, bro. Would you mind keeping Pip overnight?”

Tyler’s skin goes hot and then cold. If Pip stays with Posey overnight - 

“Thanks. I’ll pick her up in the morning. Yeah, okay, shut up, I’m in the middle of a date.” Dylan grins and hangs up, setting the phone on the bar and still staring at Tyler. “So,” he says.

“So,” Tyler echoes, faintly.

“Want to come back to my place?”

Dylan’s grin is the flirty one that drives Tyler crazy, but he’s hesitant underneath it, Tyler can tell. He can’t possibly be worried Tyler’s going to say no.

“Absolutely,” Tyler says, and Dylan’s grin opens up until he’s beaming at Tyler, then laughing, reaching for his beer so he can chug the rest of it down. Tyler follows suit, and throws some cash down for a tip before hauling Dylan off of his stool and towards the door.

Dylan keeps his hand on Tyler’s thigh in the car, and Tyler has to fight to keep his eyes open and on the road while Dylan’s fingertips squeeze into the muscle, warm even through Tyler’s jeans. Dylan’s laugh goes low and throaty when Tyler gives a very audible gulp at a streetlight, and he drags his palm over denim until his pinky finger is barely two inches from Tyler’s fly.

“I’m actually surprised you don’t think three dates is moving too fast,” Dylan says, and Tyler feels like he’s humming the words directly against Tyler’s skin, his voice thrumming through the space between them, the air in the car charged and warm.

“Normally I would,” Tyler says, glaring up through the windshield at the red light. “But like you said it’s almost like four. And we’ve known each other for months now, so it doesn’t count.” He glances over at Dylan, worried now that Dylan thinks they’re moving too fast. “Right?”

Dylan doesn’t smirk, or grin, or tilt his eyebrows or anything. He looks serious as all hell when he says, “Right. Now hit it, the light is green.”

Tyler feels shy when they’re inside the house and the door is closed. Dylan doesn’t turn on any lights, just leads Tyler to the bedroom in the dark, kicking aside toys and a pair of sneakers as he goes. Dylan’s bedroom is clean but not too neat, the top of the dresser and the nightstand cluttered, the hamper nearly full, a shirt on the floor. Tyler gets one look around at the plan beige walls, the guitar propped in one corner, the grey comforter turned down before Dylan is on him, flinging himself at Tyler so hard Tyler almost topples backwards.

“God, I think I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you in that fucking tank top on Field Day,” Dylan says in between kisses, his hands already up the back of Tyler’s shirt. He’s holding onto Dylan’s shoulder with one hand, trying to steady himself, and the other is sliding through Dylan’s hair, cradling the back of his head.

“What, really?”

“Yes, really,” Dylan says, and his mouth moves over Tyler’s cheek, closing around the hinge of his jaw. He’s sucking lightly, biting a little, and Tyler tilts into it. When Dylan shifts to get at Tyler’s neck, their cheeks drag together, stubble rasping, and Tyler flashes back to when he’d wondered what that would sound like, feel like.

He doesn’t have to wonder anymore. It’s really fucking hot.

So is the way Dylan’s hands are flexing against his back, almost like he can’t control them, and the feel of his tongue working up Tyler’s throat, over the bob of his Adam’s apple. Tyler presses his thumb into Dylan’s shoulder, right above the point of his collarbone, and Dylan moans against his neck.

“Fuck,” Tyler says, with feeling, his head falling back. Dylan laughs a little at that, breath gusting warm over the damp patches he’s leaving on Tyler’s skin.

“That might be the first time I’ve heard you swear.”

“I try not to that often.”

“It’s hot,” Dylan says, and his hands slide out of Tyler’s shirt, over his jeans to the curve of his ass, and squeeze.

“Fuck,” Tyler repeats, gasping now, and Dylan’s laugh this time is rougher.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Dylan strips them both, because Tyler is too busy watching Dylan’s skin appear, cataloguing each scar and mole, to get his fingers to do much of anything. He’s getting too worked up too fast, only able to blink down at Dylan while he tugs Tyler’s jeans down his legs and off his feet. Dylan pauses on his way back up to lick a stripe across Tyler’s stomach, just above the waist of his underwear, and Tyler gives a full body shudder, gripping Dylan’s shoulders tight enough that the skin there goes paler than normal.

“You can bruise me a little if you want, I don’t mind. I kind of like being marked up, actually.”

Tyler groans, and does fall backwards onto the bed at that, leaving Dylan to crawl over him, laughing.

Dylan leaves their underwear on, which is fine with Tyler, because he needs to get himself together, and he thinks it’ll be more difficult to do if they were fully skin-on-skin. It’s hard enough as is with Dylan’s fabric clad erection rubbing against Tyler’s own as they kiss, Dylan’s palms skimming over Tyler’s nipples as he skates them up and down Tyler’s torso.

“You’re really fucking well built, did you know that?” Dylan asks, thumbs mapping the grooves of Tyler’s abs. 

“Thanks,” Tyler says, almost self-conscious, but the way Dylan’s looking down at his chest makes him swell a little with pride. He works hard to be healthy and strong, and to have someone appreciate it as much as Dylan obviously is, it feels nice. “You, too.”

And he is, leaner than Tyler but still muscular. Tyler likes the way he feels on top of him, narrower at the waist but almost as broad at the shoulders, and lithe. His thighs aren’t as thick, bracketing Tyler's hips, but they’re covered in coarse hair, and Tyler has to wrap his hands around them to feel the way it bristles against his palms.

“You think so?”

“I do. I think you’re really fucking hot, actually.”

Dylan groans, and leans down to bite one of Tyler’s nipples, making him buck up against Dylan. “Seriously, if you keep swearing like that I’m going to come in my boxers, Jesus.”

Tyler squeezes Dylan’s thighs, and Dylan shifts his hips a little, slowly, dragging their dicks together.

“That would be really fucking hot, too,” Tyler says, and Dylan rocks down harder, bringing his head up for a kiss, opening his mouth to lick into Tyler’s, letting it get wet and filthy.

Tyler’s close in no time, whimpering in the back of his throat as they kiss, heat pooling at the base of his spine, and then Dylan pulls away, his mouth and his hands and his body, coming down on his side next to Tyler. Tyler blinks at him, a little stunned, feeling the orgasm that’d been rushing towards him slipping slowly away.

“Come on, get those off,” Dylan says, plucking at the elastic of Tyler’s boxer briefs with one finger and then shoving his own boxers down, wiggling until he can kick them off the end of the bed. His cock is wet at the tip, curving up over his abdomen, and Tyler is overwhelmed by how much he wants to touch it, wants to taste it. He scrabbles at his own underwear, getting them down to his ankles before Dylan’s scooting forward over the mattress, lining them up and wrapping one hand of long fingers around them both.

Tyler’s breath is punched out of him, and his orgasm rushes right back. He fights it off, squeezing his eyes shut, because the feeling of Dylan jerking them both off is too good to be over this fast.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t,” Dylan chants, and nudges his nose against Tyler’s. “Look at me, Tyler.”

Tyler does, and Dylan grins, tightening his fingers and twisting his wrist. Tyler groans.

“I’m close, too. You can come. I want you to.”

Tyler is a total goner. The sound that comes out of his mouth is half-whine, half-moan, and he comes so hard his spine almost locks up, shooting up both their chests, spilling down over Dylan’s fingers. Dylan says, “oh god,” just once, and follows, back bending like a bow.

They slump over onto their backs, sweat-damp arms pressed together.

“Fuck,” Tyler says, and Dylan reaches out to tap the back of his hand on Tyler’s chest.

“Nice try, but I can’t get hard again this fast.”

Tyler laughs, and Dylan does too, rolling over to press their mouths together.

*****

They’re one month in when Dylan pops the question, and _there’s_ the chest-caving in Tyler should be used to by now yet isn’t.

“Want to come over tonight so we can tell Pip?”

Tyler tries to breathe past the lump in his throat, and squeezes his fingers around Dylan’s wrists a little too tightly. Dylan doesn’t complain, and Tyler says, “Yes.”

Dylan cooks, and Tyler thinks it’s adorable the way he spins around the kitchen in a frenzy wearing an apron that Charlotte painted in school for Father’s Day the year before, splotches of color on the front that might be flowers or cartoon characters but are mostly just blobs of purple and orange and green. It’s not the first time Dylan’s cooked for him, but it’s the first time Charlotte is there, singing along to Dylan’s “Pip Mix” blaring from the iPod deck on the counter and kicking her feet against the cabinets from her perch next to the sink.

“Pepper,” Dylan says, and Pip echoes it, taking the measuring spoon from Dylan and dumping its contents carefully into the pot near her hip, taking their routine as seriously as a surgeon and her nurse, while Tyler halves cherry tomatoes for a salad. Tyler can see it becoming a regular thing, the three of them in the kitchen, Tyler an appreciative spectator of the Dylan-and-Pip show, filling up on warmth and Charlotte’s laughter before the food is even served.

Days and weeks and months of it stretch out in front of him, and he has to set the knife down and press his palms to the dishtowel he stuck through one of his belt loops, fisting the terry cloth until his knuckles creak to keep his hands from shaking. Dylan looks back over his shoulder, still stirring his sauce, mouth crooked. “How’s the salad coming?”

“Good,” Tyler says, gathering himself, focusing on the vegetables in front of him. “Almost done.”

He’s not nervous about what Charlotte’s going to say, because he thinks she likes him well enough, but he goes rigid anyway when Dylan turns to her at the table halfway through dinner and says, “Hey, Pip, Tyler and I have something we want to talk to you about.”

Charlotte wipes her mouth primly with a napkin and folds her hands on the table, giving Dylan her full attention. It’s so sweet, so adorable, that Tyler almost misses Dylan reaching out for his hand. His fingers waggle at Tyler on top of the table and Tyler catches them in his own, holds onto them while Dylan talks.

“We’ve been spending some time together,” Dylan starts, and Pip nods immediately.

“That’s why I’ve been with Uncle Tyler and Auntie Seana.”

“That’s right. And we want to keep spending time together, because we like each other very much. But I want to make sure that’s okay with you.”

“Without me?” she asks, and Tyler frowns.

“What do you mean?” Dylan asks, and Charlotte screws her face up like she’s thinking, pinching her chin and taking her time answering.

“You’ve been together without me, that’s why I needed Uncle Tyler and Auntie Seana. Does that mean that you want to be together without me?”

“No, baby,” Dylan says, “the opposite. We want to be together _with_ you. That’s why we’re asking.”

“Oh.” Her eyes get wide and her face lights up. “That’s awesome!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

Dylan slides his hand out of Tyler’s grip and gets up, rounding the table to lift Pip right out of her seat. “You’re the best, kid.”

“No, you’re the best, Daddy,” she giggles, and lets him kiss her on both cheeks. Then she squirms until he lets her down and runs straight for Tyler, hugging him around the middle. “You too,” she says, and Tyler hugs her back, a little choked up, pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

“What do I call you, now?” she asks, tipping her face back to look up at him.

Tyler looks at Dylan, unsure. He’s a lot of things now - Dylan’s boyfriend (and the idea of it still sends a little shiver up Tyler’s spine), Charlotte’s coach, and in a month or so, her teacher. Tyler shrugs, and Dylan shrugs back.

“Uh, well, you’ll have to call me Mr. Hoechlin at tee ball and school, still,” Tyler says.

“And then just Mister at home?”

Dylan laughs, and Tyler grins up at him, liking the sound of it. “Sure, Charlotte. You can call me Mister at home.”

“Pip,” she says, and heabutts him in the chest. “Charlotte at tee ball and school, still. But Pip at home.”

Tyler swallows, because that’s just it, he’s about ten seconds from actual tears because this child is the most darling, and he nods, squeezing her tight.

“Pip at home, you got it.”

*****

The first day of school is always weird, but Tyler thinks it’s weirder this year than even the one before. The weird feeling ramps up when the first grade class troops into the gym and Pip - Charlotte - is waving to him from the line, all smiles and bouncing ponytail.

He claps his hands to get their attention, and they gather around him, rapt.

Day one is for easy stuff, so he starts the dance unit. They go in a circle, imitating the silly moves that Tyler makes up for them, and he laughs as much as they do.

But no one laughs harder than Charlotte, especially when Tyler holds up his hands to make bunny paws and hops around the room.


End file.
